<» 


vi 


THE   GROWTH    OF   LOVE 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 


Note.  In  issuing  The  Growth  of  Love  the  publisher 
has  desired  to  set  forth  the  high  estimate  recently 
come  to  be  held  regarding  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Robert 
Bridges.  To  do  this  effectually,  no  more  fitting  intro- 
duction could  have  been  given  than  the  contribution 
by  Mr.  Lionel  Johnson,  to  be  found  in  the  Century 
Guild  Hobby  Horse  (October,  1891),  and  here  reprinted 
entire.  It  was  and  is  almost  as  inaccessible  as  one 
of   Mr.   Bridges'  privately  printed  pamphlets. 

It  only  remains  to  say  that  this  reprint  is  made 
direct  from  a  copy  of  the  original  Growth  of  Love, 
of  which  100  copies  in  Fell's  Old  English  Type  (Fcap 
4to.)  were  put  forth  from  the  private  press  of  Rev, 
H.  Daniel,  Oxford,  1890.  The  punctuation  (or  rather 
the  lack  of  it)  has  been  literally  followed.  The  half-title 
immediately  preceding  the  Sonnets  is  that  of  the  origi- 
nal title  page,  while  the  printer's  device  at  the  end  of 
the  book  is  also  reproduced  in  facsimile  from  this  unique 
edition. 


Only  Fifty  copUs  of  this  Large  Paper  Edition  {Post  4to.) 
have  been  printed,  ten  of  which  are  on  Japan  Vellum, 
and  forty  on  Van  Gelder's  hand-made  paper.  Each 
copy  numbered,  and  the  type  distributed. 

No.  if 


T 


HE   GROWTH    OF    LOVE 
BY   ROBERT    BRIDGES 


PRINTED  FOR  THOMAS  B.  MOSHER  AND 
PUBLISHED  BY  HIM  AT  37  EXCHANGE 
STREET     PORTLAND     MAINE   MDCCCXCIV 


j^.,^A.^-)^^fi^-^ 


GIFT 


THE  POEMS  OF  MR.  BRIDGES  ; 
A  BRIEF  AND  GENERAL  CON- 
SIDERATION. 


914 


THE  POEMS  OF  MR.  BRIDGES  : 
A  BRIEF  AND  GENERAL  CON- 
SIDERATION. 

THE  supreme  duties  of  the  artist  to- 
ward his  art,  as  of  all  students  to- 
ward their  studies,  are  two  in  num- 
ber, but  of  one  kind :  a  duty  of  reverence, 
of  fidelity,  of  understanding,  toward  the  old, 
great  masters ;  and  a  duty  of  reverence,  of 
fidelity,  of  understanding,  toward  the  living 
age  and  the  living  artists.  But  that  our  age 
lives  well,  and  that  our  artists  live  well,  who 
shall  assure  us  ?  Life,  its  energies  and  its 
activities,  ourselves  can  recognize :  but  we 
require  a  touchstone  and  a  test,  some  im- 
age of  that  perfect  state,  which  lieth  in  the 
heavens,  seen  there  by  Plato,  eternal  in  the 
heavens,  proclaimed  by  Paul,  before  we  can 
accept  with  joy,  and  follow  with  readiness, 
the  ways  of  our  living  age,  of  our  living 
artists.  Here  too,  we  have  a  double  duty, 
one  to  the  past  and  one  to  the  present :  if 
we  fulfil  it,  then  we  cannot  lack  the  neces- 
sary test  or  standard,  whereby  to  assay  our- 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

selves  and  others.  In  the  first  place :  Se- 
curus  judicat  orbis  terrarum :  sure  and  sound 
is  the  whole  world's  judgment :  in  Sopho- 
cles and  in  Virgil,  in  Dante  and  in  Milton, 
virtue  and  truth  shine  clearly.  The  general 
voice  of  men,  the  more  authoritative  voice  of 
artists  and  of  students,  go  together  in  praise 
of  the  old,  great  masters.  "  But  they  lived 
in  their  times,  we  live  now;  what  have  we 
to  do  with  them?"  Neither  did  the  old, 
great  masters  flourish  together :  yet  examine, 
I  pray  you,  the  debt  of  Virgil  to  Homer, 
the  debt  of  Dante  to  Virgil,  the  debt  of 
Milton  to  Homer,  to  Virgil,  and  to  Dante. 
Do  you  not  find  it  an  inestimable  debt  of 
reverence,  of  fidelity,  and  of  understanding? 
Or  can  you  discover  in  those  masters  any 
sign  of  a  servile  obedience  to  each  other  ? 
Call  it  rather,  not  a  debt  due,  but  a  grace 
sought  and  received.  Be  we  artists  then, 
or  students  merely,  let  us  judge  ourselves 
and  our  age,  let  us  value  ourselves  and  our 
age,  according  to  the  mind  of  the  great 
masters,  and  in  their  spirit.  In  the  second 
place :  at  one  with  our  test  by  antique  ex- 
cellence, is  the  test  by  our  proper  conscience. 
There  are  occasions  in  our  work,  when  we 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

say,  with  a  confidence  beyond  expression, 
This  is  right:  against  text-book  and  pre- 
cept, warning  and  exhortation,  we  know 
our  work  to  be  true.  And ;  while  the  ped- 
ant, with  a  mechanic  reverence,  in  a  blind 
fidelity,  through  a  dulled  understanding, 
quotes  against  us  his  Aristotle,  his  Vitru- 
vius,  his  Pope,  his  Reynolds ;  we  know,  that 
we  are  their  dutiful  sons,  not  he :  that  what 
we  do,  following  our  conscience  and  our 
light,  is  in  the  spirit  and  in  the  truth  of 
what  they  did,  following  theirs.  "  And  your 
lawless  profaner  of  art,  your  ignorant  con- 
temner of  the  past :  will  not  he  say  as  much  ?" 
Well !  such  an  one  may  lie,  indeed :  and  let 
him  look  to  his  conscience.  He  will  find 
there  a  witness  to  his  profanity  and  to  his 
ignorance  :  he  will  confess,  that  he  has  not 
meditated  the  great  past,  nor  the  fine  tra- 
dition ;  that  the  old  masters  were  loyalists, 
himself  a  rebel ;  they  bent  upon  a  rational 
development,  he  upon  a  mindless  innova- 
tion ;  they  true  to  the  constitutions  of  art, 
he  careless  for  their  violation.  As  in  the 
spiritual  or  interior  life,  the  Church  would 
have  a  man  perfect  himself  by  the  help  of 
approved  rules  and  meditations,  not  super- 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

seding,  but  directing,  his  conscience  :  so  in 
art,  which  also  has  its  interior  life,  the  gen- 
eral wisdom  of  the  great  masters  must  help 
to  nourish  and  to  strengthen  that  conscience, 
which  cannot  thrive  wholly  upon  the  de- 
sires and  the  intimations  of  its  own  genius. 
If  we  regard  such  men,  as  Spenser  and  as 
Sidney  in  Elizabethan  times,  or  as  Mr. 
Whitman  in  our  own,  we  find  not  their 
greatness,  nor  their  felicity,  to  lie  in  the 
attempt  to  compose  English  verse  in  the 
ancient  metres  of  Greece  and  Rome,  nor 
in  the  attempt  to  rob  English  verse  of  all 
metrical  law. 

It  is  upon  these  principles,  thus  briefly 
declared,  that  I  purpose  to  estimate,  if 
may  be,  the  poems  of  a  living  poet ;  one 
standing,  in  point  of  time,  between  Mr. 
Symonds  and  Mr.  Lang,  or  between  Mr. 
Dobson  and  Mr.  Gosse:  one  standing,  in 
place  of  honour,  by  the  judgment  of  Mr. 
Robinson  ElHs,  "  second  only  to  Mr.  Swin- 
burne ",  as  "  an  Oxford  poet. "  I  will  not 
consider  the  degree  of  excellence  indicated 
by  that  position  :  suffice  it  to  say,  that  the 
eminent  Reader  in  Latin  at  the  University 
of    Oxford   intended   to  confer  upon   our 


V 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

poet,  Mr.  Bridges,  a  great  measure  of  his 
approbation  and  of  his  praise. 

Were  we  to  reckon  the  number  of  Mr. 
Bridges'  performances,  by  the  number  of 
works,  bearing  his  name,  in  an  historical 
or  chronological  list,  we  would  do  him  a 
wrong:  he  is  not  one  of  those  writers, 
whose  own  writings  compose  no  small  part 
of  their  own  libraries.  Such  a  list  would 
give  the  names  of  some  seventeen  volumes, 
including  small  pamphlets  and  the  prod- 
ucts of  a  private  press ;  the  earliest  volume 
would  be  recorded  under  the  year  1873, 
the  latest  under  the  year  189 1  :  but  of 
these  seventeen  works,  published  during 
these  eighteen  years,  many  are,  so  to  say, 
the  writer's  anthologies,  or  deliberate  col- 
lections, chosen  from  the  earlier  volumes, 
together  with  new  matter.  Indeed,  the 
lover  of  excellence  in  English  literature 
must  often  have  felt  a  passing  vexation,  a 
shade  of  annoyance ;  so  difficult  has  he 
found  the  search  for  many  rare,  choice 
poems,  either  sacrificed  by  Mr.  Bridges' 
careful  conscience,  or  hidden  away  by  him 
in  editions  hard  to  procure.  Yet  it  may 
be  thought,  that  this  touch  of   antiquity, 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

the  need  for  this  exhilarating  bibliomania, 
add  something  pleasant  to  the  study  of 
Mr.  Bridges:  we  have  so  many  popular 
poets,  and  popular  editions  of  their  Col- 
lected Works,  that  retirement,  leisure,  anx- 
iety, in  a  living  poet,  are  virtues  the  more 
estimable  and  distinguished.  They  are 
virtues,  no  less,  to  be  emulated  and  re- 
spected by  a  critic  :  and  in  considering  Mr. 
Bridges'  poems,  I  shall  say  nothing  about 
those,  which  he  has,  in  the  full  exercise 
of  his  judgment,  cast  away.  Litera  scripta 
majiet:  they  are  indestructible,  and  cannot 
escape  the  antiquary  :  so  far  as  they  deserve 
to  be  sought  out  and  remembered,  posterity 
will  do  well  to  annul  the  over-rigorous  sen- 
tence of  Mr.  Bridges.  For  the  present,  let 
it  stand. 

The  poems  of  Mr.  Bridges  are  of  the 
lyrical  kind,  of  the  narrative,  and  of  the 
dramatic :  and  before  examining  each  kind 
apart,  let  me  say  something  applicable  to 
the  whole  of  them,  in  greater  or  less  degree. 
These  poems,  then,  represent,  with  much 
else  that  is  admirable,  the  scholarship  of 
poetry;  a  certain  erudite  air  of  mastery 
over  the  secrets  of  rhythm  and  of  metre ; 


THE    POEMS   OF    MR.    BRIDGES, 


,  a  trained  skill  in  music,  and  in  those  deli- 
cate devices,  which  give  so  excellent  a  dis- 
tinction to  the  older  English  poets.  To 
whatever  Mr.  Bridges  set  his  hand,  he  pre- 
serves discretion  and  propriety :  the  schol- 
ar's instinct,  no  less  than  the  poet's,  mak- 
ing it  impossible  for  him  to  outrage  fine 
taste,  by  the  fantastic  freaks  of  some  great 
men  amongst  us,  "  At  the  present  time,  " 
so  he  tells  us  with  lamentable  truth,  "men 
seem  to  affect  to  have  outgrown  the  rules 
of  art":  but  he,  at  least,  reverencing  the 
great  masters,  makes  an  "  attempt  to  work 
in  their  manner, "  Not  that  he  is  a  slavish 
follower  of  the  great  masters,  their  captive 
rather  than  their  votarist :  at  times,  he  may 
have  fallen  somewhat  into  that  attitude, 
but  not  for  long,  it  is  not  characteristic  of 
him.  It  is  his  characteristic  virtue,  that  he 
moulds  his  thought,  guides  his  imagination, 
into  fresh  and  living  forms,  with  a  schol- 
arly knowledge  of  what  has  been  done  be- 
fore him,  in  like  manner,  though  not  in  the 
same :  thus,  some  among  his  poems  are 
noticeable  for  their  boldness  of  metrical 
experiment  and  invention ;  but  we  can 
trust  him,' who  wrote  those  two  good  treat- 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

ises  On  the  Prosody  of  Paradise  Regained 
and  Samson  Agonistes^  and  On  the  Elements 
oj  Milton's  Blank  Verse  in  Paradise  Lost. 
The  invention  may  displease  us,  the  exper- 
iment prove  unhappy :  yet  we  recognize  a 
justifiable  enterprise,  a  scholar's  venture ; 
not  the  frantic  impertinence  of  one  writing, 
in  despair  of  nature,  and  in  contempt  of  art. 
And  this  learned  competence,  so  abundant 
in  his  form,  is  naturally  abundant  in  his 
matter :  for  matter  and  form,  to  repeat  a 
simple  and  neglected  truth,  are  inseparable. 
Mr.  Bridges  is  not  enamoured  of  a  new 
thing,  for  its  novelty:  his  thoughts  are  his 
own  thoughts,  but  his  expression  of  them 
is  in  harmony  with  the  matured  wisdom  of 
many  ages,  meditating  the  common,  human 
things,  with  gravity  or  in  gladness.  That 
is  Horace,  we  say,  or  Catullus ;  there  is 
Theognis  or  Meleager ;  and  here  is  Mar- 
veil,  here  Vaughan,  here  Herrick  ;  and  this 
brings  Landor  to  mind,  Landor,  or  Collins, 
or  Wordsworth ;  and  now  Shakespeare, 
now  Terence,  now  Fletcher  comes  across 
us,  with  elder  Athenian  spirits :  yet  the 
final  outcome  is  no  mere  freshened  mem- 
ory of  old  greatness  and  deligHts,  but  a 


THE    POEMS    OF   MR.    BRIDGES. 

recognition  of  the  true  and  living  poet  in 
Mr.  Bridges,  who  thus  delicately  preserves 
for  modern  use  an  antique  charm.  Deli- 
cately: in  a  generous  appreciation  of  an- 
cient excellences,  and  with  a  full  sense  of 
all,  that  they  can  do,  to  help  him  also  on 
the  hard  way  to  an  honourable  perfection. 
So,  the  passion  of  his  verse  is  an  ardent 
and  an  austere  passion,  filled  with  the  ar- 
dours and  the  austerities  of  a  mind,  that 
enjoys  with  reverence,  almost  with  fear 
and  trembling,  the  joys  of  art  and  nature, 
the  true  savour  of  them,  their  decent  come- 
liness and  admired  grace. 

I  love  all  beauteous  things, 

I  seek  and  adore  them ; 
God  hath  no  better  praise. 
And  man  in  his  hasty  days 

Is  honoured  for  them. 

I  too  will  something  make 

And  joy  in  the  making; 
Altho'  to-morrow  it  seem 
Like  the  empty  words  of  a  dream 

Remembered  on  waking. 

Mr.  Bridges  published  his  first  book  of 
poems  in  1873  ;  a  pamphlet  of  verse  in  1879, 
and  anothrf  in  1880 ;  a  fourth  volume  i* 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

sued,  in  1884,  from  the  private  press  of  Mr. 
Daniel,  Fellow  and  Bursar  of  Worcester  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  reprinting  some  of  the  earlier 
poems  :  in  1890  appeared  The  Shorter  Poems 
of  Robert  Bridges,  of  which  the  first  three 
parts  are  mainly  reprints  from  the  former 
collections,  whilst  the  last  part  is  wholly 
new.  In  1890  also  came,  from  Mr.  Daniel's 
excellent  press,  a  book  of  sonnets,  The 
Growth  of  Love :  some  of  these  had  already 
been  published.  Apart  from  the  lyrical 
portions  of  his  dramatic  poems,  this  is  the 
sum  of  Mr.  Bridges'  lyrics :  and,  for  our 
present  purpose,  we  need  consider  but  the 
Shorter  Poems  and  The  Growth  of  Love. 

The  Shorter  Poems,  the  ripe  harvest  of 
Mr.  Bridges'  labours,  are  seventy-eight  in 
number :  to  state  a  general  truth,  we  may 
determine  the  spirit  and  beauty  of  them  to 
be  meditative,  in  two  fashions.  Either 
these  lyrics  show  forth  the  powerful  charm 
of  life  in  its  natural  air,  upon  its  natural 
ground  ;  the  stir  and  the  silence,  the  change 
and  the  endurance,  of  this  natural  world, 
working  upon  the  contemplative  mind  :  or, 
they  express  the  contemplative  mind,  dwell- 
ing upon  its  proper  works  and  business,  of 


THE    POEMS   OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

reason  and  of  art,  of  thought  and  of  aspir- 
ation, in  the  light  of  nature  and  of  man's 
place  in  nature.  The  two  aspects  are  har- 
monious: and  much  extravagance  of  life 
and  of  thought  has  come  of  ignoring  their 
harmony.  Have  we  not  wearied  ourselves, 
many  a  time,  over  the  reproaches  and  the 
sorrows  of  those,  who,  as  it  were,  go  up  into 
the  mountain  alone,  but  rather  to  weep,  than 
to  pray,  or  to  keep  silence  ?  And  there  are 
those,  who  weary  us  with  the  ceaseless  agi- 
tation of  their  active  life  and  thoughts ; 
crowds  are  round  about  them,  noise  is 
their  music :  they  quote  us  their  Terence, 
Homo  sum,  as  though  Terence  would  have 
them  turn  the  universe  into  a  committee 
room  for  universal  talk.  The  posture  of 
Mr.  Bridges'  mind,  displayed  in  these 
poems,  is  rather  that  of  those  earlier  poets, 
Elizabethans  and  Jacobeans,  to  whom  the 
world  looked  half  a  court  of  grave  observ- 
ances, and  half  a  cloister  of  delights :  and 
their  service  in  either  kind,  a  service  of 
solemnity  and  of  elegance  together.  Only 
by  some  such  phrase,  can  I  express  that 
dainty  and  cheerful  spirit  of  pleasure,  which 
makes  the   sacred  verse  of  Marvell  or  of 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

Herrick,  of  Ben  Jonson  or  of  Crashaw, 
sound  like  the  strain  of  rich  music  at  a 
feast,  where  all  is  gracious  and  entirely  to 
be  relished.  It  is  an  excellent  view  of  life, 
which  looks  upon  the  world  as  a  chamber 
of  God,  where  what  is  secular  is  eternal, 
what  is  spiritual  is  ideal :  and  all  good,  fine 
things  are  the  ornaments  and  garniture  of 
an  eternal  spirit  immanent  there.  I  find 
something  of  this  view  in  all  great  poetry  : 
Lucretius  cannot  obscure  it : 

tibi  suaveis  daedala  tellus 
Submittit  flores,  tibi  rident  aequora  ponti 
Placatumque  nitet  diffuse  lumine  coelum. 

In  Pope  or  in  Gray,  an  exquisite  refine- 
ment of  taste  and  workmanship  declares 
their  love  of  a  pleasing  order  among  things : 
Keats,  once  clear  from  the  prodigalities  of 
youth,  is  great  in  virtue  of  it :  Wordsworth 
is  magnificent  in  praise  of  it,  for  what 
does  he  ascribe  to  Duty,  for  an  office  and 
a  grace? 

Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  Stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the  most  ancient  Heavens,  through  Thee,  are 
fresh  and  strong. 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

Arnold,  by  dwelling  with  such  serenity 
of  mind  upon  the  great  things  thought  and 
done  in  the  world,  and  with  such  gladness 
of  heart  upon  the  seemliness  and  the 
strength  of  nature,  helped  us  to  an  appre- 
ciation of  this  view :  Newman,  in  all  his 
perfect  expression  of  life's  real  unity  and 
concord ;  in  all  his  lamentation,  so  like  to 
Milton's,  over  the  breaking  of  that  fair 
music  and  divine  concent;  taught  us  the 
same  enduring  truth.  Mr.  Pater,  realizing 
with  so  singular  a  delight  of  intellect,  the 
qualities  of  all  admirable  things  and  na- 
tures, loves  to  call  them  hieratic^  or  precise^ 
or  comely:  he  follows  the  ritual  order  of 
human  life  and  of  human  thought.  Nay, 
come  to  the  greatest  things :  what  is  the 
Theology  of  the  Church  Catholic,  but  the 
patient  and  adoring  Science  of  God,  guard- 
ed from  wild  dreams,  grounded  upon  di- 
vine sanctions  ?  But  in  our  day  men  love 
to  think  of  themselves,  as  lost  in  the  world, 
homeless  in  the  universe ;  each  wandering 
fancy  is  fashioned  into  a  "  lyrical  cry " : 
without  meditation,  without  reverence,  with- 
out patience,  they  utter,  and  would  have  us 
hear,    their    disconnected    and    uncertain 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

thoughts.  They  have  no  habitual,  nor  con- 
stant, principles  of  thought;  no  test,  no 
standard  of  judgment:  loose  sentiment 
and  lawless  imagination  are  the  signs  to 
them  of  free  and  fearless  genius.  So,  the 
form  of  poetry  being  inseparable  from  its 
matter,  this  random  and  unconsidered  mat- 
ter is  expressed  in  forms,  devoid  of  all 
scholarship  and  all  proportion :  poetry  is 
degraded  to  a  mechanical  trick  of  record- 
ing immediate  impressions  or  vagrant  fan- 
cies. It  is  one  main  source  of  our  pleas- 
ure in  reading  these  Shorter  Foems,  that 
not  the  slightest  of  them  is  thus  trivial  and 
mean :  modern  they  are,  of  our  own  day ; 
but  their  romance  of  tone  is  classical,  their 
meditative  quality  is  immemorial.  As  with 
states,  so  it  is  with  thoughts  :  the  poet,  too, 
who  would  deal  with  the  fresh  moods  and 
influences  of  his  day,  must 

Cast  the  kingdoms  old 
Into  another  mould. 

Mark  the  word :  not,  cast  them  into  orig- 
inal chaos,  the  land  of  Dullness  and  of  the 
Dunces ;  but  into  a  new  mould,  a  fresh 
form  and  feature,  no  less  precise  of  design 
than  were  the  former.     For  an   example : 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

compare  Mr.  Bridges'  Spring:  Invitation 
to  the  Country^  and  his  Spring:  Reply,  with 
Randolph's  Ode  to  Master  Anthony  Stafford, 
and  with  Cotton's  Retirement,  Stanzes  Ir- 
reguliers :  to  Mr.  Izaak  Walton.  Or  go 
farther  back,  into  a  greater  antiquity :  read 
again  Martial  Ad  Licinianum  de  Hispaniae 
locis,  or  Horace  Ad  Virgilium:  and  see, 
how  this  living  poet  can  once  more  play 
upon  the  old  theme  of  life's  aspect  and  of 
life's  virtue,  in  town  and  country,  in  winter 
and  in  spring.  Or  make  another  compar- 
ison :  read  Campion's  rich  and  moving 
verses : 

"When  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  underground. 

And  there  arrived,  a  new  admired  guest, 

The  beauteous  spirits  do  engirt  thee  round, 

White  lope,  blithe  Helen,  and  the  rest, 

To  hear  the  stories  of  thy  finished  love 

From  that  smooth  tongue  whose  music  hell  can  move; 

Then  wilt  thou  speak  of  banqueting  delights, 
Of  masques  and  revels  which  sweet  youth  did  make, 
Of  tourneys  and  great  challenges  of  knights, 
And  all  those  triumphs  for  thy  beauty's  sake  : 
When  thou  hast  told  these  honours  done  to  thee. 
Then  tell,  O  tell,  how  thou  didst  murder  me." 

The    classic,    romantic    splendour    and 
beauty  of  that,  so  full  of   Propertian   fire 

XXV 


V 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

and  Spenserian  solemnity,  cannot  escape 
you  :  now  read  Mr,  Bridges'  Elegy  on  a  Lady, 
whom  Grief  for  the  Death  of  her  Betrothed 
killed:  I  must  mutilate  it,  by  quotation  :  it 
thus  concludes  : 

But  now  for  many  days  the  dewy  grass 
Has  shown  no  markings  of  his  feet  at  mom : 
And  watching  she  has  seen  no  shadow  pass 
The  moonlit  walk,  and  heard  no  music  borne 

Upon  her  ear  forlorn. 
In  vain  has  she  looked  out  to  greet  him ; 
He  has  not  come,  he  will  not  come,  alas  ! 
So  let  us  bear  her  out  where  she  must  meet  him. 

Now  to  the  river  bank  the  priests  are  come : 
The  bark  is  ready  to  receive  its  freight : 
Let  some  prepare  her  place  therein,  and  some 
Embark  the  litter  with  its  slender  weight : 

The  rest  stand  by  in  state, 
And  sing  her  a  safe  passage  over; 
While  she  is  oared  across  to  her  new  home. 
Into  the  arms  of  her  expectant  lover. 

And  thou,  O  lover,  that  art  on  the  watch, 
Where,  on  the  banks  of  the  forgetful  streams. 
The  pale  indifferent  ghosts  wander,  and  snatch 
The  sweeter  moments  of  their  broken  dreams,  — 

Thou,  when  the  torchlight  gleams. 
When  thou  shalt  see  the  slow  procession, 
And  when  thine  ears  the  fitful  music  catch. 
Rejoice  !  for  thou  art  near  to  thy  possession. 


y 


THE    POEMS   OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

Arnold,  we  find,  is  not  the  only  poet  of 
our  day,  who  without  a  specious  resem- 
blance can  use  the  ancient  symbols  and 
imageries,  for  the  stately  expression  of  a 
sorrow :  but  this  power  of  true  assimilation 
is  rare  enough,  and  not  to  be  had,  but  by 
patient  study  educating  a  native  sense  for 
the  distinctions  of  art. 

A  thorough  consideration  of  Mr.  Bridges' 
poetry  would  ponder  long  his  skill  in  music 
and  in  metre :  for  in  these  he  has  some- 
thing of  the  master's  touch,  and  beyond  the 
dexterity  of  a  novice.  But  so  full  of  mi- 
nute and  of  technical  scholarship  is  he,  that 
a  treatise  were  required  for  the  exhibition 
of  his  theoretic  science  and  actual  practice. 
But  I  will  say,  that,  if  he  err  at  all,  it  is  in 
a  certain  concision  and  compactness,  com- 
ing of  many  strong  monosyllables,  too  little 
tempered  and  relieved  by  words  of  a  more 
prolonged  melody :  it  is  an  effect,  something 
between  briskness  and  sprightliness,  com- 
mon in  the  less  deft  and  versatile  of  Eliza- 
bethan lyrists,  and  unequal  to  occasions  of 
great  and  moving  beauty.  Such  verses  are, 
indeed,  of  a  pleasant  tone  and  of  a  just 
economy ;  their  structure  is  neat  and  clean, 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

they  are  without  waste  and  profusion  of 
words  :  but  coming  from  Mr.  Bridges,  they 
come  rather  as  "copies  of  verses",  done  in 
'  the  scholar's  humour,  for  the  leisurely  ex- 
ercise' sake,  than  as  the  best  products  of 
his  imagination.  When  he  chooses  to  sing 
or  to  chaunt,  with  more  of  various  melody 
and  concerted  music,  we  regret,  not  with- 
out some  ingratitude,  his  less  delicate  or 
lofty  strain.  In  certain  measures,  devised 
with  a  great  subtilty  of  accents,  equal  in 
number  upon  each  line,  but  in  each  line 
prevailing  over  various  reaches,  or  disposed 
at  various  intervals,  Mr.  Bridges  has  not 
yet  attained  a  perfect  ease  :  but  he  contrives 
many  pleasurable  eifects :  witness  some  of 
the  lines  On  a  Dead  Child. 

Perfect  little  body,  without  fault  or  stain  on  thee, 
With  promise  of  strength  and  manhood  full  and  fair ! 

Though  cold  and  stark  and  bare, 
The  bloom  and  the  charm  of  life  doth  awhile  remain 
on  thee. 

And  again: 

So  quiet!  doth  the  change  content  thee?  —  Death, 

whither  hath  he  taken  thee  ? 
To  a  world,  do  I  think,  that  rights  the  disaster  of 

this  > 

The  vision  of  which  I  miss, 


THE    POEMS   OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

Who  weep  for  the  body,  and  wish  but  to  warm  thee 
and  awaken  thee  ? 

Ah !  little  at  best  can  all  our  hopes  avail  us 

To  lift  this  sorrow,  or  cheer  us,  when  in  the  dark. 

Unwilling,  alone  we  embark, 
And  the  things  we  have  seen  and  have  known  and 
have  heard  of,  fail  us. 

But  those,  who  wish  to  study  the  met- 
rical achievements  of  Mr.  Bridges,  in  va- 
rious kinds,  had  best  read  his  comedy,  The 
Feast  of  Bacchus,  written  in  "  English  six- 
stressed  verse  "  ;  his  Eden,  an  Oratorio,  set 
to  music  by  Mr.  Villiers  Stanford ;  the 
choral  parts  of  his  play,  Achilles  in  Scyros ; 
to  name  but  these. 

Besides  the  Shorter  Foems,  the  volume  of 
seventy-nine  sonnets,  entitled  The  Growth 
of  Love,  is  of  noticeable  beauty :  it  may  be 
thought,  in  point  of  mental  and  imagin- 
ative strength,  his  finest  work.  Unlike 
most  sonnets  of  our  time,  these  sonnets  are 
weighty  with  close  thought,  and  rich  with 
images,  in  the  Shakespearian,  and  in  Mil- 
ton's ways  :  yet  not  obscure,  nor  luxuriant, 
in  the  less  happy  manner  of  Rossetti.  And 
their  substance  is  congruous  with  the  form : 
each  grave  or  exulting  thought  finds  within 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

the  limits  of  the  fourteen  lines,  an  exact 
place  for  it  to  fill :  so  Petrarch  conceived 
the  sonnet,  and  so  Sidney.  I  present  one, 
at  random : 

The  dark  and  serious  Angel,  who  so  long 

Vexed  his  immortal  strength  in  charge  of  me, 

Hath  smiled  for  joy  and  fled  in  liberty 

To  take  his  pastime  with  the  peerless  throng. 

Oft  had  I  done  his  noble  keeping  wrong. 

Wounding  his  heart  to  wonder  what  might  be 

God's  purpose  in  a  soul  of  such  degree : 

And  there  he  had  left  me,  but  for  mandate  strong. 

But  seeing  thee  with  me  now,  his  task  at  close 
He  knoweth,  and  wherefore  he  was  bid  to  stay 
And  work  confusion  of  so  many  foes. 
The  thanks  he  looks  to  have  from  me  I  pay, 
Yet  fear  some  heavenly  envy  as  he  goes 
Unto  what  great  reward  I  cannot  say. 

The  narrative  poem,  Eros  and  Psyche, 
published  in  1885,  is  one  of  those  versions, 
in  which  "  Apuleius  has  been  simply  fol- 
lowed. "  It  is  written  in  graceful  stanzas 
of  seven  lines,  and  dedicated,  in  significant 
terms,  To  the  Celestial  Spirit  of  Henry  Pur- 
cell  by  an  Unworthy  Lover.  The  poem  is  in 
no  sfense  a  translation  :  indeed,  Mr.  Bridges 
has  a  note,  in  which  he  speaks  of  "  the  sub- 
stitution of  Hellenism  for  Latin  vulgarity," 


THE    POEMS   OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

somewhat  to  the  consternation  of  the  pres- 
ent writer,  who  is  equally  surprised  at  read- 
ing of  "  the  dull  furniture  of  Apuleius. " 
The  poem  is  a  felicitous  piece  of  fancy,  em- 
bellished with  many  devices  :  but  the  lover 
of  Apuleius  will  prefer  the  miraculous  ren- 
dering by  Mr.  Pater.  Nowhere  in  Mr. 
Bridges'  poem  is  there  so  perfect  a  phrase, 
as  that  of  "  the  craftsman,  divine  or  half- 
divine,  who  by  the  subtlety  of  his  art  had 
breathed  so  wild  a  soul  into  the  silver !  " 
Qui  magnce  artis  subtilitate  tantum  efferavit 
argentum.  Mr.  Bridges'  poem  has  the  same 
degree  of  excellence,  that  has  Mr.  Lang's 
Helen  of  Troy :  but  it  can  hardly  claim  an 
higher  place,  for  all  its  ready  invention, 
and  its  grace  of  scholarship. 

Prometheus  the  Firegiver :  A  Spectacle  in 
the  Greek  Manner  was  first  printed  in  the 
year  1883,  by  Mr.  Daniel,  and  at  a  public 
press  in  1884 :  Nero,  The  Feast  of  Bacchus, 
Palicio,  Return  of  Ulysses,  The  Christian 
Captives,  Achilles  in  Scyros,  have  followed 
Prometheus.  It  is  here,  that  I  can  best 
dwell  upon  another  distinction  of  Mr. 
Bridges,  as  a  poetical  craftsman.  That  he 
is  no  contemner  of  the  past,  has  been  said  : 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

but  he  is  also,  as  appears  from  his  works,  a 
very  careful  searcher  into  the  literary  fash- 
ions, tastes,  habits,  adventures,  of  the  old 
craftsmen.  Men  of  letters,  and  poets  above 
all,  are  in  these  days  content  to  know  little 
about  such  matters  :  to  have  a  general  view 
of  Sophocles  and  of  Shakespeare,  but  to  be 
extremely  ignorant  of  Calderon  and  of  Al- 
fieri;  to  know  much  of  Milton,  but  nothing 
of  Vondel,  much  of  Lessing,  but  nothing  of 
Opitz  :  to  read  Spenser,  and  Chaucer,  and 
Dryden,  but  not  Browne,  nor  Gower,  nor 
Cowley.  And  who  shall  say,  that  to  know 
the  great  Masters  is  not  the  first  necessity 
of  an  artist  ?  Yet  we  might  think,  that  a 
true  man  of  letters  would  eagerly  explore 
all  tracts  and  byways  of  literature,  all  ten- 
tative methods  and  forsaken  aims  of  his 
predecessors.  In  the  other  arts,  this  apathy 
less  prevails :  we  have  with  us  still  those, 
who  are  willing  to  study  the  old  "  Italian 
tractates  ",  to  explore  old  music-rooms,  to 
pursue  the  obscure  traces  of  all  past  excel- 
lence. Mr.  Bridges,  whilst  displaying 
throughout  his  work  a  loving  familiarity 
with  both  old  and  foreign  literature,  seems, 
if  I  may  make  the  conjecture,  to  have  stud- 


THE    POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

ied  with  especial  care  the  spectacular  and 
the  musical  history  of  the  stage :  to  know, 
wherein  precisely  consists  the  virtue  of  any 
dramatic  form,  at  a  given  period.  Thus,  in 
\i\%  Feast  of  Bacchus,  he  has  done  in  Eng- 
lish, what  no  one  else  has  done  :  he  has 
given  us  the  very  soul  and  body  of  Terence, 
with  the  ghost  of  the  lost  and  shadowy  Me- 
nander.  Such  a  study  is,  he  sings,  a  win- 
tertide's  employment : 

Then  oft  I  turn  the  page 
In  which  our  country's  name, 
Spoiling  the  Greek  of  fame, 
Shall  sound  in  every  age  : 
Or  some  Terentian  play 
Renew,  whose  excellent 
Adjusted  folds  betray 
How  once  Menander  went. 

In  all  his  plays,  he  exhibits  a  just  con- 
ception of  his  subject  and  of  its  treatment: 
he  knows,  when  to  catch  the  spirit  of  the 
Italian  Renaissance,  or  of  the  Spanish 
school ;  when  to  plan  his  chorus  in  the  aus- 
tere manner  of  Milton,  or  with  something 
of  Shelley's  brilliance ;  when  the  Sophoclean 
tone  is  in  season,  and  when  that  of  Euripi- 
des; what  degree  of  license  is  permissible, 


THE   POEMS   OF   MR.    BRIDGES. 

in  handling  classic  matters  after  the  Eliza- 
bethan way.  In  all  that,  he  is  never  at  a 
loss :  his  plays  are  quick-witted,  ingenious, 
facile:  although  his  dexterous  craftsman- 
ship rarely  enables  him  to  make  the  dra- 
matic forrh  embody  the  high  dramatic  spirit. 
All  that  he  writes  in  dramatic  form,  we  en- 
joy; it  is  infinitely  skilful  and  attractive: 
but  for  a  power  essentially,  pre-eminently, 
dramatic,  we  look  to  the  one  English  dram- 
atist of  greatness,  now  living;  to  Michael 
Field.  Mr.  Bridges  gives  us  the  humour 
of  the  drama,  its  various  attendant  charms 
and  graces,  not  without  a  real  and  an  origi- 
nal force :  but  in  his  lyrics  he  is  perfectly 
fine. 

Briefly,  and  generally,  I  have  touched 
upon  the  characteristic  virtues,  as  I  see 
them,  of  this  excellent  poet :  rather  indica- 
ting, than  attempting  to  expound,  his  pecu- 
liar charm.  It  is  a  limited  charm  :  not  that 
it  is  one  liable  to  decay  with  time,  or  to 
pass  with  the  reader's  passing  moods.  But 
it  is  limited,  in  the  sense  that  this  poetry  in 
all  its  simplicity,  in  all  its  skill,  is  too  dainty 
a  thing  for  common  use.  Unlike  the  poems 
of  Arnold  or  of  Wordsworth,  of  Virgil  or 


THE    POEMS   OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

of  Keats,  of  Milton  or  of  Goethe,  they  can- 
not be  read  daily  and  in  all  places.  That 
is  test  of  great  poetry :  its  abiding  and  un- 
failing power  upon  us,  because  of  its  indif- 
ference to  time  and  place.  A  line  of  Vir- 
gil, written  by  the  Bay  of  Naples,  in  some 
most  private  hour  of  meditation,  all  those 
long  years  ago !  comes  home  to  us,  as 
though  it  were  our  own  thought :  upon 
each  repetition,  experience  has  made  it 
more  true  and  touching.  Or  take  some 
verse  of  Arnold,  written  at  Oxford  or  in 
London,  some  few  years  past :  it  comes 
home  to  us,  as  though  a  thousand  years  had 
pondered  it,  and  found  it  true.  And  in 
beauty,  in  power  of  music  and  of  phrase, 
the  great  poets  are  all  contemporaries  :  an 
eternal  beauty  is  upon  the  great  works  of 
art,  as  though  they  were  from  everlasting. 
Poets  of  exquisite  charm,  true  to  their  art, 
true  to  its  traditions,  full  of  its  inner  spirit, 
may  still  miss  that  final  grace  and  gran- 
deur :  and  of  these,  Mr.  Bridges  is,  in  my 
poor  judgment,  the  most  admirable  in  re- 
cent times.  Had  a  friend  been  reading 
Herrick  to  me,  or  Catullus ;  were  I  lying 
in  the  gardens  of  New  College  in  Oxford, 


THE   POEMS   OF   MR.    BRIDGES. 

or  in  Winchester  Meads ;  did  some  one 
play  to  me  a  fugue  of  Bach :  I  might, 
at  this  hour,  rate  the  Shorter  Poems  of 
Robert  Bridges  far  higher  than  my  con- 
science, unperverted  by  delights,  will  suffer 
me.  For  they  are  poems,  unaffected  and 
simple,  yet  with  an  air  of  dainty  luxury 
about  them  :  free  from  all  trivial  show  and 
glitter,  yet  not  commanding  and  compel- 
ling us  by  their  intrinsic  greatness.  Read 
England  ^s  Helicon,  or  Mr.  Palgrave's  anth- 
ology o£  English  Lyrics  :  neither  book  con- 
tains one  page  of  absolutely  bad  work,  and 
either  contains  a  vast  deal  that  is  very 
good.  We  might  with  reason  grow  enthus- 
iastic over  these  delightful  pages :  but 
then,  with  what  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing we  read  an  ode  of  Milton,  a  lyric  of 
Shakespeare  ! 

You  meaner  Beauties  of  the  Night, 

That  poorly  satisfie  our  Eies, 
More  by  your  number,  than  your  light, 

You  Common-people  of  the  Skies ; 
What  are  you  when  the  Sun  shall  rise  ? 

But  in  our  zeal  for  the  Sun,  let  us  not  shut 
our  eyes  to  the  stars :  and  in  the  heavens 
of  Poetry,  where  now  few  stars,  perchance,. 


THE   POEMS    OF    MR.    BRIDGES. 

not  a  full  Pleiad,  are  shining,  none  shines 
more  purely,  nor  more  serenely,  than  the 
star  of  our  consideration, 

LIONEL  JOHNSON. 


€$e  O^rotDtl)  of 
Ipolie 


THEY  that  in  play  can  do  the  thing  they  would 
Having  an  instinct  throned  in  reason's  place, 
—  And  every  perfect  action  hath  the  grace 
Of  indolence  or  thoughtless  hardihood  — 
These  are  the  best :  yet  be  there  workmen  good 
Who  lose  in  earnestness  control  of  face 
Or  reckon  means  and  rapt  in  effort  base 
Reach  to  their  ends  by  steps  well  understood. 

Me  whom  thou  sawst  of  late  strive  with  the  pains 
Of  one  who  spends  his  strength  to  rule  his  nerve  — 
Even  as  a  painter  breathlessly  who  strains 
His  scarcely  moving  hand  lest  it  should  swerve  — 
Behold  me  now  free  from  the  care  that  stains 
And  master  of  the  art  I  chose  to  serve. 


II 

For  thou  art  mine.     And  now  I  am  ashamed 
To  have  us^d  means  to  win  so  pure  acquist 
And  of  my  trembling  fear  that  might  have  missed 
Through  very  care  the  gold  at  which  I  aimed  : 
And  am  as  happy  but  to  hear  thee  named, 
As  are  those  gentle  souls  by  angels  kissed 
In  pictures  seen  leaving  their  marble  cist 
To  go  before  the  throne  of  grace  unblamed. 

Nor  surer  am  I  water  hath  the  skill 
To  quench  my  thirst  or  that  my  strength  is  freed 
In  measure,  grace  and  motion  as  I  will 
Than  that  to  be  myself  is  all  I  need 
For  thee  to  be  most  mine  :  so  I  stand  still 
And  save  to  taste  my  joy  no  more  take  heed. 


Ill 

The  whole  world  now  is  but  the  minister 

Of  thee  to  me :  I  see  no  other  scheme 

But  universal  love  from  timeless  dream 

Waking  to  thee  his  joy's  interpreter. 

I  walk  around  and  in  the  fields  confer 

Of  love  at  large  with  tree  and  flower  and  stream 

And  list  the  lark  descant  upon  thy  theme 

Heaven's  musical  accepted  worshipper. 

Thy  smile  outfaceth  ill :  and  that  old  feud 
'Twixt  things  and  me  is  quashed  in  our  new  truce 
And  Nature  now  dearly  with  thee  endued 
No  more  in  shame  ponders  her  old  excuse 
But  quite  forgets  her  frowns  and  antics  rude 
So  kindly  hath  she  grown  to  her  new  use. 


IV 

The  very  names  of  things  we  love  are  dear 
And  sounds  will  gather  beauty  from  their  sense, 
As  many  a  face  through  love's  long  residence 
Groweth  to  fair  instead  of  plain  and  sere  : 
But  when  I  say  thy  name  it  hath  no  peer 
And  I  suppose  fortune  determined  thence 
Her  dower,  that  such  beauty's  excellence 
Should  have  a  perfect  title  for  the  ear  : 

For  I  must  think  the  adopting  Muses  chose 

Their  sons  by  name,  knowing  none  would  be  heard 

Or  writ  so  oft  in  all  the  world  as  those  : 

Dan  Chaucer,  mighty  Shakespeare,  then  for  third 

The  classic  Milton,  and  to  us  arose 

Shelley  with, liquid  music  in  the  word. 


The  poets  were  good  teachers  for  they  taught 

Earth  had  this  joy,  but  that 't  would  ever  be 

That  fortune  should  be  perfected  in  me 

My  heart  of  hope  dared  not  engage  the  thought. 

So  I  stood  low,  and  now  but  to  be  caught 

By  any  self-styled  lords  of  the  age  with  thee 

Vexes  my  modesty,  lest  they  should  see 

I  hold  them  owls  and  peacocks,  things  of  nought. 

And  when  we  sit  alone,  and  as  I  please 
I  taste  thy  love's  full  smile  and  can  enstate 
The  pleasure  of  my  kingly  heart  at  ease  : 
My  thought  swims  like  a  ship,  that  with  the  weight 
Of  her  rich  burden  sleeps  on  the  infinite  seas 
Becalmed,  and  cannot  stir  her  golden  freight. 


VI 

While  yet  we  wait  for  spring  and  from  the  dry 

And  blackening  east  that  so  embitters  March, 

Well  housed  must  watch  grey  fields  and  meadows  parch 

And  driven  dust  and  withering  snowflake  fly : 

Already  in  glimpses  of  the  tarnished  sky 

The  sun  is  warm  and  beckons  to  the  larch, 

And  where  the  covert  hazels  interarch 

Their  tasselled  twigs,  fair  beds  of  primrose  lie. 

Beneath  the  crisp  and  wintry  carpet  hid 
A  million  buds  but  stay  their  blossoming 
And  trustful  birds  have  built  their  nests  amid 
The  shuddering  boughs,  and  only  wait  to  sing 
Till  one  soft  shower  from  the  south  shall  bid 
And  hither  tempt  the  pilgrim  steps  of  spring. 


VII 

In  thee  my  spring  of  life  hath  bid  the  while 
A  rose  unfold  beyond  the  summer's  best, 
The  mystery  of  joy  made  manifest 
In  love's  self-answering  and  awakening  smile  : 
Whereby  the  lips  in  silence  reconcile 
Desire  with  peace,  and  pleading  in  arrest 
Of  passion,  shew  the  beauty  left  unguessed 
Of  Greece  to  adorn  at  last  the  Tuscan  style  : 

When  first  the  wonder  conquering  faith  had  kenned 
Fancy  pourtrayed,  above  the  strength  of  oath 
Revealed  of  God  or  light  of  poem  penned. 
The  countenance  of  ancient-plighted  troth 
'Twixt  heaven  and  earth,  that  in  one  moment  blend 
The  hope  of  one  and  happiness  of  both. 


VIII 

For  beauty  being  the  best  of  all  we  know 
Sums  up  the  unsearchable  and  secret  aims 
Of  nature,  and  on  joys  whose  heavenly  names 
Were  never  told  can  form  and  sense  bestow. 
And  man  hath  sped  his  instinct  to  outgo 
Nature  in  sound  and  shape,  and  daily  frames 
Much  for  himself  to  countervail  his  shames, 
Building  a  tower  above  the  head  of  woe. 

And  never  was  there  work  for  beauty  found 
Fairer  than  this,  that  she  should  make  to  cease 
The  jarring  woes  that  in  the  world  abound. 
Nay  with  his  sorrow  may  his  smiles  encrease, 
If  from  man's  greater  need  beauty  redound 
And  claim  his  tears  for  homage  of  his  peace. 


IX 

Thus  to  thy  beauty  doth  my  fond  heart  look 
That  late  dismayed  her  faithless  faith  forebore 
And  wins  again  her  love  lost  in  the  lore 
Of  schools  and  script  of  many  a  learned  book  : 
For  thou  what  ruthless  death  untimely  took 
Shalt  now  in  better  brotherhood  restore 
And  save  my  battered  ship  that  far  from  shore 
High  on  the  dismal  deep  in  tempest  shook. 

So  in  despite  of  sorrow  lately  learned 
I  still  hold  true  to  truth  since  thou  art  true, 
Nor  wail  the  woe  which  thou  to  joy  hast  turned 
Nor  come  the  heavenly  sun  and  bathing  blue 
To  my  life's  need  more  splendid  and  unearned 
Than  hath  thy  gift  outmatched  desire  and  due. 


X 

Winter  was  not  unkind  because  uncouth, 
His  prisoned  time  made  me  a  closer  guest 
And  gave  thy  graciousness  a  warmer  zest 
Biting  all  else  with  keen  and  angry  tooth  : 
And  bravelier  the  triumphant  blood  of  youth 
Mantling  thy  cheek  its  happy  home  possest 
And  sterner  sport  by  day  put  strength  to  test 
And  custom's  feast  at  night  gave  tongue  to  truth. 

Or  say  hath  flaunting  summer  a  device 
To  match  our  midnight  revelry  that  rang 
With  steel  and  flame  along  the  snow-girt  ice  ? 
Or  when  we  harked  to  nightingales  that  sang 
On  dewy  eves  in  spring,  did  they  entice 
To  gentler  love  than  winter's  icy  fang  ? 


XI 

There  's  many  a  would-be  poet  at  this  hour 
Rhymes  of  a  love  and  truth  he  never  wooed 
And  o'er  his  lamplit  desk  in  solitude 
Deems  that  he  sitteth  in  the  Muses'  bower. 
And  while  such  thewless  kine  the  fat  devour 
And  ever  grow  the  leaner  for  their  food 
Men  look  askance  upon  an  art  pursued 
By  clerks  that  lack  the  pulse  and  smile  of  power. 

So  none  of  all  our  company,  I  boast, 
But  now  would  mock  my  writing  could  they  see 
How  down  the  right  it  maps  a  jagged  coast : 
Seeing  they  hold  the  manlier  praise  to  be 
Strong  hand  and  will  and  the  heart  best  when  most 
'T  is  sober,  simple,  true  and  fancy-free. 


XII 

How  could  I  quarrel  or  blame  you  most  dear 
Who  all  thy  virtues  gavest  and  kept  back  none  : 
Kindness  and  gentleness,  truth  without  peer 
And  beauty  that  my  fancy  fed  upon  ? 

Now  not  my  life's  contrition  for  my  fault 
Can  blot  that  day  nor  work  me  recompense, 
Though  I  might  worthily  thy  worth  exalt 
Making  thee  long  amends  for  short  offence. 

For  surely  nowhere,  love,  if  not  in  thee 
Are  grace  and  truth  and  beauty  to  be  found  : 
And  all  my  praise  of  these  can  only  be 
A  praise  of  thee,  howe'er  by  thee  disowned  : 

While  still  thou  must  be  mine  though  far  removed,^ 
And  I  for  one  offence  no  more  beloved. 


XIII 

Now  since  to  me  although  by  thee  refused 
The  world  is  left,  I  shall  find  pleasure  still : 
The  art  I  have  ever  loved  but  little  used 
Will  yield  a  world  of  fancies  at  my  will. 

And  though  where'er  thou  goest  it  is  from  me, 
I  where  I  go  thee  in  my  heart  must  bear : 
And  what  thou  wert  that  wilt  thou  ever  be, 
My  choice,  my  best,  my  loved  and  only  fair. 

Farewell,  yet  think  not  such  farewell  a  change 
From  tenderness,  though  once  to  meet  or  part 
But  on  short  absence  so  could  sense  derange 
That  tears  have  graced  the  greeting  of  my  heart : 

They  were  proud  drops  and  had  my  leave  to  fall 
Not  on  thy  pity  for  my  pain  to  call. 


XIV 

When  sometimes  in  an  ancient  house  where  state 
From  noble  ancestry  is  handed  on, 
We  see  but  desolation  through  the  gate 
And  richest  heirlooms  all  to  ruin  gone  : 

Because  maybe  some  fancied  shame  or  fear 
Bred  of  disease  or  melancholy  fate 
Hath  driven  the  owner  from  his  rightful  sphere 
To  wander  nameless  save  to  pity  or  hate. 

What  is  the  wreck  of  all  he  hath  in  fief 
When  he  that  hath  is  wrecking  ?  nought  is  fine 
Unto  the  sick,  nor  doth  it  burden  grief 
That  the  house  perish  when  the  soul  doth  pine. 

Thus  I  my  state  despise,  slain  by  a  sting 
So  slight  't  would  not  have  hurt  a  meaner  thing. 


XV 

WHO  builds  a  ship  must  first  lay  down  the  keel 
Of  health,  whereto  the  ribs  of  mirth  are  wed 
And  knit  with  beams  and  knees  of  strength,  a  bed 
For  decks  of  purity,  her  floor  and  ceil. 
Upon  her  masts,  adventure,  pride  and  zeal, 
To  fortune's  wind  the  sails  of  purpose  spread : 
And  at  the  prow  make  figured  maidenhead 
O'er  ride  the  seas  and  answer  to  the  wheel. 

And  let  him  deep  in  memory's  hold  have  stored 
Water  of  Helicon  :  and  let  him  fit 
The  needle  that  doth  true  with  heaven  accord : 
Then  bid  her  crew,  love,  diligence  and  wit 
With  justice,  courage,  temperance  come  aboard. 
And  at  her  helm  the  master  reason  sit. 


XVI 

This  world  is  unto  God  a  work  of  art 
Of  which  the  unaccomplished  heavenly  plan 
Lives  in  his  masterpiece  and  grows  with  man 
Unto  perfection  and  success  in  part. 
The  ultimate  creation  stayed  to  start 
From  the  last  creature  for  whom  all  began  : 
Who  child  in  what  he  is  and  what  he  can 
Hath  yet  God's  judgment  and  desire  at  heart. 

Knowledge  denied  him,  and  his  little  skill 
Cumbered  by  laws  he  never  can  annul, 
Baffled  by  qualities  adverse  and  ill, 
With  feeble  hands,  few  years  and  senses  dull, 
His  art  is  nature's  nature,  and  love  still 
Makes  his  abode  with  the  most  beautiful. 


XVII 

Say  who  be  these  light-bearded  sunburnt  faces 
In  negligent  and  travel-stained  array- 
That  in  the  city  of  Dante  come  to-day 
Haughtily  visiting  her  holy  places  ? 
O  these  be  noble  men  that  hide  their  graces, 
True  England's  blood,  her  ancient  glory's  stay, 
By  tales  of  fame  diverted  on  their  way 
Home  from  the  rule  of  Oriental  races. 

Life-trifling  lions  these,  of  gentle  eyes 
And  motion  delicate,  but  swift  to  fire 
For  honour,  passionate  where  duty  lies, 
Most  loved  and  loving :  and  they  quickly  tire 
Of  Florence,  that  she  one  more  day  denies 
The  embrace  of  wife  and  son,  of  sister  or  sire. 


XVIII 

Where  San  Miniatos  convent  from  the  sun 
At  forenoon  overlooks  the  city  of  flowers 
I  sat,  and  gazing  on  her  domes  and  towers 
Called  up  her  famous  children  one  by  one : 
And  three  who  all  the  rest  had  far  outdone, 
Mild  Giotto  first,  who  stole  the  morning  hours, 
I  saw,  and  god-like  Buonarroti's  powers, 
And  Dante,  gravest  poet,  her  much  wronged  son. 

Is  all  this  glory,  I  said,  another's  praise  ? 
Are  these  heroic  triumphs  things  of  old 
And  do  I  dead  upon  the  living  gaze  ? 
Or  rather  doth  the  mind  that  can  behold 
The  wondrous  beauty  of  the  works  and  days 
Create  the  image  that  her  thoughts  enfold. 


XIX 

Rejoice  ye  dead,  where'er  your  spirits  dwell, 
Rejoice  that  yet  on  earth  your  fame  is  bright 
And  that  your  names  remembered  day  and  night 
Live  on  the  lips  of  those  that  love  you  well. 
Rejoice  ye  living  ye  that  now  excel 
And  guard  in  nameless  homes  the  sacred  light : 
Rejoice,  though  prosperous  folly  in  her  spite 
Banish  all  them  that  from  her  rule  rebel. 

For  Ihe  world's  exile  hath  a  richer  meed 
Than  a  king's  favourite :  he  shall  arrive 
With  the  like  triumph  and  return  decreed 
To  him  who  ne'er  revisited  alive 
His  home  but  sang,  —  Doubt  not  I  shall  succeed 
For  all  the  hindrance  they  within  contrive. 


XX 

Who  praiseth  ?     If  the  poet  have  not  known 

His  work  is  beautiful,  none  can  persuade  : 

Nor  doth  our  time  that  so  wrongs  Handel's  shade 

Contrive  his  condemnation  but  its  own. 

The  comment  writ  on  Shakespeare  hath  not  shown 

The  perfect  judgment  that  alive  he  laid 

On  his  own  work,  which  taketh  since  't  was  made 

Grace  nor  disgrace  save  but  of  love  alone. 

And  love  in  loving  nothing  that  is  vile 
Knows  not  the  error  of  the  mind,  nor  fears 
To  set  his  seal  in  secret  with  a  smile : 
But  O  could  one  as  Purcell  win  the  tears 
Of  love,  such  praise  were  more  than  to  beguile 
The  learned  fancies  of  a  thousand  years. 


XXI 

The  world  still  goeth  about  to  shew  and  hide, 
Befooled  of  all  opinion,  fond  of  fame  : 
But  he  that  can  do  well  taketh  no  pride 
And  seeth  his  error,  undisturbed  by  shame : 

So  poor's  the  best  our  longest  days  can  do. 
The  most  so  little,  diligently  done. 
So  mighty  is  the  beauty  that  doth  woo, 
So  vast  the  joy  that  love  from  love  hath  won. 

God's  love  to  win  is  easy,  for  He  loveth 
Desires  fair  attitude,  nor  strictly  weighs 
The  broken  thing,  but  all  alike  approveth 
Which  love  hath  aimed  at  Him  :  that  is  heaven's  praise 

And  if  we  look  for  any  praise  on  earth 
'T  is  in  man's  love  :  all  else  is  nothing  worth. 


XXII 

O  FLESH  and  blood,  comrade  to  tragic  pain 

And  clownish  merriment :    whose  sense  could  wake 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  count  death  but  an  ache, 

All  things  as  vanity,  yet  nothing  vain  : 

The  world  set  in  thy  heart  thy  passionate  strain 

Revealed  anew :  but  thou  for  man  didst  make 

Nature  twice  natural,  only  to  shake 

Her  kingdom  with  the  creatures  of  thy  brain. 

Lo  Shakespeare,  since  thy  time  nature  is  loth 
To  yield  to  art  her  fair  supremacy  : 
In  conquering  one  thou  hast  so  enrichdd  both. 
What  shall  I  say }  for  God  —  whose  wise  decree 
Confirmeth  all  He  did  by  all  He  doth  — 
Doubled  His  whole  creation  making  thee. 


XXIII 

I  WOULD  be  a  bird,  and  straight  on  wings  I  arise 
And  carry  purpose  up  to  the  ends  of  the  air : 
In  calm  and  storm  my  sails  I  feather  and  where 
By  freezing  cliflFs  the  unransomed  wreckage  lies  : 
Or  strutting  on  hot  meridian  banks  surprise 
The  silence  :  over  plains  in  the  moonlight  bare 
I  chase  my  shadow  and  perch  where  no  bird  dare 
In  treetops  torn  by  fiercest  winds  of  the  skies. 

Poor  simple  birds,  foolish  birds,  then  I  cry, 
Ye  pretty  pictures  of  delight,  unstirred 
By  the  only  joy  of  knowing  that  ye  fly : 
Ye  are  not  what  ye  are,  but  rather,  summed  in  a  word. 
The  alphabet  of  a  god's  idea,  and  I 
Who  master  it,  I  am  the  only  bird. 


XXIV 

0  WEARY  pilgrims  chaunting  of  your  woe 
That  turn  your  eyes  to  all  the  peaks  that  shine, 
Hailing  in  each  the  citadel  divine 

The  which  ye  thought  to  have  entered  long  ago 
Until  at  length  your  feeble  steps  and  slow 
Falter  upon  the  threshold  of  the  shrine, 
And  your  hearts  overburdened  doubt  in  fine 
Whether  it  be  Jerusalem  or  no : 

Disheartened  pilgrims,  I  am  one  of  you, 
For  having  worshipped  many  a  barren  face 

1  scarce  now  greet  the  goal  I  journeyed  to  : 
I  stand  a  pagan  in  the  heavenly  place. 
Beneath  the  lamp  of  truth  I  am  found  untrue 
And  question  with  the  glory  I  embrace. 


XXV 

Spring  hath  her  own  bright  days  of  calm  and  peace 
Her  melting  air,  at  every  breath  we  draw, 
Floods  heart  with  love  to  praise  God's  gracious  law  : 
But  suddenly  —  so  short  is  pleasure's  lease  — 
The  cold  returns,  the  buds  from  growing  cease 
And  nature's  conquered  face  is  full  of  awe  : 
As  now  the  traitrous  north  with  icy  flaw 
Freezes  the  dew  upon  the  sick  lamb's  fleece. 

And  'neath  the  mock  sun  searching  everywhere 
Rattles  the  crispdd  leaves  with  shivering  din  : 
So  that  the  birds  are  silent  with  despair 
Within  the  thickets,  nor  their  armour  thin 
Will  gaudy  flies  adventure  in  the  air 
Nor  any  lizard  sun  his  spotted  skin. 


XXVI 

Nothing  is  joy  without  thee  :  I  can  find 
No  rapture  in  the  first  relays  of  spring, 
In  songs  of  birds,  in  young  buds  opening, 
Nothing  inspiriting  and  nothing  kind  : 
For  lack  of  thee  who  once  wert  throned  behind 
All  beauty,  like  a  strength  where  graces  cling  : 
The  jewel  and  heart  of  light  which  everything 
Wrestled  in  rivalry  to  hold  enshrined. 

Ah,  since  thou  'rt  fled  and  I  in  each  fair  sight 
The  sweet  occasion  of  my  joy  deplore, 
Where  shall  I  seek  thee  best  or  whom  invite 
Within  thy  sacred  temples  and  adore  ? 
Who  shall  fill  thought  and  truth  with  old  delight 
And  lead  my  soul  in  life  as  heretofore  ? 


XXVII 

The  work  is  done  and  from  the  fingers  fall 

The  bloodwarm  tools  that  brought  the  labor  through 

The  tasking  eye  that  overrunneth  all 

Rests,  and  affirms  there  is  no  more  to  do. 

Now  the  third  joy  of  making,  the  sweet  flower 
Of  blessed  work  bloometh  in  godlike  spirit : 
Which  whoso  plucketh  holdeth  for  an  hour 
The  shrivelling  vanity  of  mortal  merit. 

And  thou,  my  perfect  work,  thou  'rt  of  to-day  : 
To-morrow  a  poor  and  alien  thing  wilt  be, 
True  only  should  the  swift  life  stand  at  stay  : 
Therefore  farewell  nor  look  to  bide  with  me. 

Go  find  thy  friends  if  there  be  one  to  love  thee  : 
Casting  thee  forth,  ray  child,  I  rise  above  thee. 


XXVIII 

The  fabled  sea-snake,  old  Leviathan, 

Or  else  what  grisly  beast  of  scaly  chine 

That  champed  the  oceanwrack,  and  swashed  the  brine 

Before  the  new  and  milder  days  of  man, 

Had  never  rib  nor  bray  nor  swindging  fan 

Like  his  iron  swimmer  of  the  Clyde  or  Tyne, 

Late  born  of  golden  seed  to  breed  a  line 

Of  offspring  swifter  and  more  huge  of  plan. 

Straight  is  her  going,  for  upon  the  sun 
When  once  she  hath  looked,  her  path  and  place  are  plain 
With  tireless  speed  she  smiteth  one  by  one 
The  shuddering  seas  and  foams  along  the  main  : 
And  her  eased  breath  when  her  wild  race  is  run 
Roars  through  her  nostrils  like  a  hurricane. 


XXIX 

A    THOUSAND  times  hath  in  my  heart's  behoof 
My  tongue  been  set  his  passion  to  impart : 
A  thousand  times  hath  my  too  coward  heart 
My  mouth  reclosed  and  fixed  it  to  the  roof : 
Then  with  such  cunning  hath  it  held  aloof, 
A  thousand  times  kept  silence  with  such  art 
That  words  could  do  no  more  :  yet  on  thy  part 
Hath  silence  given  a  thousand  times  reproof. 

I  should  be  bolder,  seeing  I  commend 
Love  that  my  dilatory  purpose  primes, 
But  fear  lest  with  my  fears  my  hope  should  end. 
Nay  I  would  truth  deny  and  bum  my  rhymes, 
Renew  my  sorrows  rather  than  offend, 
A  thousand  times  and  yet  a  thousand  times. 


XXX 

I  TRAVEL  to  thee  with  the  sun's  first  rays 
That  lift  the  dark  west  and  unwrap  the  night : 
I  dwell  beside  thee  when  he  walks  the  height 
And  fondly  toward  thee  at  his  setting  gaze. 
I  wait  upon  thy  coming,  but  always  — 
Dancing  to  meet  my  thoughts  if  they  invite  — 
Thou  hast  outrun  their  longing  with  delight 
And  in  my  solitude  dost  mock  my  praise. 

I  well  might  say  't  were  better  not  to  have  been 
Than  such  I  am  to  be  for  such  as  thou : 
And  couldst  thou  love  me  more  my  heart  I  'd  wean 
And  win  a  claim  that  none  could  disallow : 
But  since  that  cannot  be,  O  love,  I  lean 
Upon  thy  strength  and  ne'er  was  strong  till  now. 


XXXI 

My  lady  pleases  me  and  I  please  her, 

This  know  we  both  and  I  besides  know  well 

Wherefore  I  love  her  and  I  love  to  tell  '^^ 

My  love  as  all  my  loving  songs  aver. 

But  what  on  her  part  could  the  passion  stir 

Though  't  is  more  difficult  for  love  to  spell 

Yet  can  I  dare  divine  how  this  befel  ~ 

Nor  will  her  lips  deny  it  if  I  err. 

She  loves  me  first  because  I  love  her,  then 
Loves  me  for  knowing  why  she  should  be  loved, 
And  that  I  love  to  praise  her,  loves  again. 
So  from  her  beauty  both  our  loves  are  moved 
And  by  her  beauty  are  sustained,  nor  when 
The  earth  falls  from  the  sun  is  this  disproved. 


XXXII 

In  all  things  beautiful  I  cannot  see 

Her  sit  or  stand,  but  love  is  stirred  anew  : 

'T  is  joy  to  watch  the  folds  fall  as  they  do, 

And  all  that  comes  is  past  expectancy. 

If  she  be  silent,  silence  let  it  be : 

He  who  would  bid  her  speak  might  sit  and  sue 

The  deep-browed  Phidian  Jove  to  be  untrue 

To  his  two  thousand  years'  solemnity. 

Ah  but  her  launched  passion  when  she  sings 
Wins  on  the  hearing  like  a  shapen  prow 
Borne  by  the  mastery  of  its  urgent  wings  : 
Or  if  she  deign  her  wisdom,  she  doth  show 
She  hath  the  intelligence  of  heavenly  things 
Unsullied  by  man's  mortal  overthrow. 


Cjiep  t]^at  in  plap  can  bo  t^t  tjjiing  tlie^  tDoulb 
f$Mng  minftintt  tfytmtt  in  reafong  place/ 
— j^nb  eberp  perfect  action  jiatj  tje  grace 
|3Df  indolence  or  tj^ougj^tleC^  $a|bi]^mb— 
ir$efe  are  t!ie  belt :  ?et  be  tjiere  tno^kmen  gmb 
ilKMJo  lofe  in  eajnethtef0  control  of  face 
^r  ^ecl^on  mean^  anb  rapt  in  effort  bafe 
Eeaci)  to  tjieir  mH  b^  ft^$  loefi  unbe^llmb* 

^e  tobom  t$ou  fatoit  of  late  ftribe  Mt^  tbe  pain? 
flDf  onetojo  fpenb?  Jijj  ff^engtb  to  rule  Jiis  nerbe— 
(Eben  a^  a  painter  b^eatbleMp  tD|io  Urainis 
!^ijf  fcarcel?  mobing  Janb  lett  it  fjoulb  ftoerbe— 
15ebolb  me  nob)  Ub  from  tbe  care  tbar  ftain? 
Hnb  maHer  of  tjie  art  3  c!iofe  to  ferbe* 


FACSIMILE  PAGE  OF  THE  ORIGINAL  EDITION,  "  THE  GROWTH  OF  LOVE. 


XXXIII 

Thus  to  be  humbled  :  't  is  that  ranging  pride 

No  refuge  hath  :  that  in  his  castle  strong 

Brave  reason  sits  beleaguered  who  so  long 

Kept  field  but  now  must  starve  where  he  doth  hide 

That  industry  who  once  the  foe  defied 

Lies  slaughtered  in  the  trenches  :  that  the  throng 

Of  idle  fancies  pipe  their  foolish  song 

Where  late  the  puissant  captains  fought  and  died. 

Thus  to  be  humbled  :  't  is  to  be  undone, 
A  forest  felled,  a  city  razed  to  ground, 
A  cloak  unsewn,  unwoven  and  unspun 
Till  not  a  thread  remains  that  can  be  wound. 
And  yet,  O  lover,  thee  the  ruined  one 
Love  who  hath  humbled  thus  hath  also  crowned. 


XXXIV 

I  CARE  not  if  I  live,  though  life  and  breath 
Have  never  been  to  me  so  dear  and  sweet, 
I  care  not  if  I  die,  for  I  could  meet  — 
Being  so  happy  —  happily  my  death. 
I  care  not  if  I  love  :  to-day  she  saith 
She  loveth,  and  love's  history  is  complete. 
Nor  care  I  if  she  love  me :  at  her  feet 
My  spirit  bows  entranced  and  worshippeth. 

I  have  no  care  for  what  was  most  my  care 
But  all  around  me  see  fresh  beauty  born 
And  common  sights  grown  lovelier  than  they  were  : 
I  dream  of  love,  and  in  the  light  of  morn 
Tremble  beholding  all  things  very  fair 
And  strong  with  strength  that  puts  my  strength  to  scorn. 


XXXV 

0  MY  goddess  divine,  —  sometimes  I  say : 
Now  let  this  word  for  ever  and  all  suffice  : 
Thou  art  insatiable,  and  yet  not  twice 
Can  even  thy  lover  give  his  soul  away : 
And  for  my  acts,  that  at  thy  feet  I  lay, 
For  never  any  other  by  device 

Of  wisdom  love  or  beauty  could  entice 
My  homage  to  the  measure  of  this  day. 

I  have  no  more  to  give  thee  :  lo,  I  have  sold 
My  life,  have  emptied  out  my  heart  and  spent 
Whate'er  I  had :  till  like  a  beggar,  bold 
With  nought  to  lose,  I  laugh  and  am  content. 
A  beggar  kisses  thee,  nay  love,  behold, 

1  fear  not :  thou  too  art  in  beggarment. 


XXXVI 

All  earthly  beauty  hath  one  cause  and  proof, 
To  lead  the  pilgrim  soul  to  beauty  above : 
Yet  lieth  the  greater  bliss  so  far  aloof 
That  few  there  be  are  weaned  from  earthly  love. 

Joy's  ladder  it  is,  reaching  from  home  to  home. 
The  best  of  all  the  work  that  all  was  good  : 
Whereof  't  was  writ  the  angels  aye  upclomb, 
Down  sped,  and  at  the  top  the  Lord  God  stood. 

But  I  my  time  abuse,  my  eyes  by  day 
Centered  on  thee,  by  night  my  heart  on  fire  — 
Letting  my  numbered  moments  run  away  — 
Nor  e'en  'twixt  night  and  day  to  heaven  aspire. 

So  true  it  is  that  what  the  eye  seeth  not 
But  slow  is  loved  and  loved  is  soon  forgot. 


XXXVII 

Already  far  have  we  sailed  out  to  sea, 

Enough  have  proved  our  bark  and  hear  the  roar 

Of  tempest  ovemigh  that  more  and  more 

Rages  and  lightens  on  the  whitened  lea. 

See  how  with  naked  masts  the  tall  ships  flee 

Like  frighted  phantoms  from  the  dangerous  shore, 

And  not  a  boat  contrives  with  sail  or  oar 

To  stem  the  foundering  waves  :  how  then  shall  we  ? 

Now  time  it  is  to  make  for  port  and  haste 
In  safety  with  the  joy  our  perils  earn  : 
But  let  us  bow  that  first  the  shrine  be  graced 
Of  him  who  moves  and  draws  all  souls  that  yearn, 
With  fair  memorials  of  devotion  placed 
For  venturous  voyage  and  for  safe  return. 


xxxviri 

THE  bliss  that  Adam  lost  —  eating  in  haste  — 
He  lost  not  all,  for  what  he  had  he  had : 
And  still  his  sons  are  born  as  pure  and  glad 
As  he  when  first  by  God  in  Eden  placed. 
But  what  he  took  for  them  —  daring  to  taste  — 
He  won  outright,  whether  for  good  or  bad  : 
And  in  his  footsteps  all  must  issue  sad 
Out  of  their  garden,  exiled  and  disgraced. 

And  therefore  knowledge  hath  two  hands  :    with  one 
Pressed  to  her  prisoned  heart  that  mourns  and  yearns 
She  guards  her  firstborn  joy  and  shares  with  none  : 
But  with  her  busy  right  she  moves  and  turns 
All  tangible  things,  or  gazing  on  the  sun 
Shades  her  adventurous  eye  and  ever  learns. 


XXXIX 

O  MY  life's  mischief,  once  my  love's  delight, 
That  drewst  a  mortgage  on  my  heart's  estate, 
Whose  baneful  clause  is  never  out  of  date, 
Nor  can  avenging  time  restore  my  right : 
Whom  first  to  lose  sounded  that  note  of  spite 
Whereto  my  doleful  days  were  tuned  by  fate  : 
That  art  the  well-loved  cause  of  all  my  hate, 
The  sun  whose  wandering  makes  my  hopeless  night 

Thou  being  in  all  my  lacking  all  I  lack. 
It  is  thy  goodness  turns  my  grace  to  crime, 
Thy  fleetness  from  my  goal  which  holds  me  back  : 
Wherefore  my  feet  go  out  of  step  with  time. 
My  very  grasp  of  life  is  old  and  slack 
And  even  my  passion  falters  in  my  rhyme. 


XL 

At  times  with  hurried  hoofs  and  scattering  dust 
I  race  by  field  or  highway,  and  my  horse 
Spare  not  but  urge  direct  in  headlong  course 
Unto  some  fair  far  hill  that  gain  I  must  : 
But  near  arrived  the  vision  soon  mistrust, 
Rein  in  and  stand  as  one  who  sees  the  source 
Of  strong  illusion,  shaming  thought  to  force 
From  off  his  mind  the  soil  of  passion's  gust. 

My  brow  I  bare  then  and  with  slackened  speed 
Can  view  the  country  pleasant  on  all  sides 
And  to  kind  salutation  give  good  heed. 
I  ride  as  one  who  for  his  pleasure  rides 
And  stroke  the  neck  of  my  delighted  steed 
And  seek  what  cheer  the  village  inn  provides. 


XLI 

An  idle  June  day  on  the  sunny  Thames, 
Floating  or  rowing  as  our  fancy  led, 
Now  listening  to  sweet  things  the  young  birds  said 
And  choosing  now  a  nosegay  from  the  gems 
That  star  the  embroidery  of  the  bank  that  hems 
The  current  that  our  skiff  from  Henley  sped 
To  where  the  Cliefden  woods  o'er  Maidenhead 
Bar  its  still  surface  with  their  mirrored  stems. 

I  would  have  life  —  thou  saidst  —  all  as  this  day, 
Simple  enjoyment  calm  in  its  excess, 
With  not  a  grief  to  cloud  and  not  a  ray 
Of  passion  overhot  my  peace  to  oppress  : 
With  no  ambition  to  reproach  delay. 
Nor  rapture  to  disturb  its  happiness. 


XLII 

Whether  it  be  happiness  to  have  enough 
And  fear  no  want  while  most  are  poorly  fed, 
To  bring  untired  limbs  to  an  easy  bed 
While  any  workman's  couch  is  cold  and  rough : 
And  whether  honour  be  of  such  dull  stuff 
As  likes  the  peace  for  which  a  brother  bled, 
And  virtue  yet  untried  in  comfort  bred 
Can  know  her  name  and  feel  no  self-rebuff : 

Or  if  to  yield  themselves  to  worse  and  worse 
Were  truly  solace  for  the  hearts  that  chafe  — 
Since  their  nobility  would  choose  the  curse 
Rather  to  be  than  once  deride  the  waif. 
Or  hear  the  laugh  —  O  blame  not  my  poor  verse 
That  it  is  sad  while  comfort  still  is  safe. 


XLIII 

A  MAN  that  sees  by  chance  his  picture,  made 
As  once  a  child  he  was,  handling  some  toy, 
Will  gaze  to  find  his  spirit  within  the  boy. 
Yet  hath  no  secret  with  the  soul  pourtrayed : 
He  cannot  think  the  simple  thought  which  played 
Upon  those  features  then  so  frank  and  coy : 
'T  is  his,  yet  oh,  not  his :  and  o'er  the  joy 
His  fatherly  pity  bends  in  tears  dismayed. 

Proud  of  his  prime  maybe  he  stand  at  best 
And  lightly  wear  his  strength  or  aim  it  high, 
Most  master  now  of  all  he  e'er  possest : 
Yet  in  the  pictured  face  a  charm  doth  lie, 
The  one  thing  lost  more  worth  than  all  the 'rest, 
Which  seeing  he  fears  to  say  —  This  child  was  I. 


XLIV 

Tears  of  love,  tears  of  joy  and  tears  of  care, 
Comforting  tears  that  fell  uncomforted, 
Tears  o'er  the  new-born,  tears  beside  the  dead. 
Tears  of  hope,  pride  and  pity,  trust  and  prayer : 
Tears  of  contrition,  all  tears  whatso'er, 
Of  tenderness  or  kindness  had  she  shed 
Who  here  is  pictured,  ere  upon  her  head 
The  fine  gold  might  be  turned  to  silver  there. 

The  smile  that  charmed  the  father  hath  given  place 
Unto  the  furrowed  care  wrought,  by  the  son  : 
But  virtue  hath  transformed  all  change  to  grace. 
So  that  I  praise  the  artist  who  hath  done 
A  portrait  for  my  worship  of  the  face 
Won  by  the  heart  my  father's  heart  that  won. 


XLV 

If  I  could  but  forget  and  not  recall 

So  well  my  time  of  pleasure  and  of  play 

When  ancient  nature  was  all  new  and  gay 

Light  as  the  fashion  that  doth  last  enthrall : 

Ah  mighty  nature,  when  my  heart  was  small 

Nor  dreamed  what  fearful  searchings  underlay 

The  flowers  and  leafy  ecstasy  of  may, 

The  breathing  summer  sloth,  the  scented  fall. 

Could  I  forget,  then  were  the  fight  not  hard, 
Pressed  in  the  melee  of  accursed  things, 
Having  such  help  in  love  and  such  reward : 
But  that 't  is  I  who  once  —  't  is  this  that  stings 
Once  dwelt  within  the  gate  that  angels  guard. 
Where  yet  I  'd  be  had  I  but  heavenly  wings. 


XLVI 

When  I  see  childhood  on  the  threshold  seize 

The  prize  of  life  from  age  and  likelihood, 

I  mourn  time's  change  that  will  not  be  withstood, 

Thinking  how  Christ  said  —  Be  like  one  of  these  : 

For  in  the  forest  among  many  trees 

Scarce  one  in  all  is  found  that  hath  made  good 

The  virgin  pattern  of  its  slender  wood 

That  courtesied  in  joy  to  every  breeze  : 

But  scathed,  but  knotted  trunks  that  raise  on  high 
Their  arms  in  stiff  contortion,  strained  and  bare  : 
Whose  crowns  in  patriarchal  sorrow  sigh. 
So  little  children  ye  —  nay  nay,  ye  ne'er 
From  me  shall  learn  how  sure  the  change  and  nigh 
When  ye  shall  share  our  strength  and  mourn  to  share. 


XLVII 

WHEN  parched  with  thirst,  astray  on  sultry  sands 
The  traveller  faints,  upon  his  closing  ear 
Steals  a  fantastic  music  :  he  may  hear 
The  babbling  fountain  of  his  native  land. 
Before  his  eyes  the  vision  seems  to  stand 
Where  at  its  terraced  brink  the  maids  appear 
Who  fill  their  deep  urns  at  its  waters  clear 
And  not  refuse  the  help  of  lover's  hand. 

O  cruel  jest  —  he  cries,  as  some  one  flings 
The  sparkling  drops  in  sport  or  shew  of  ire  — 
O  shameless,  O  contempt  of  holy  things. 
But  never  of  their  wanton  play  they  tire 
As  not  athirst  they  sit  beside  the  springs 
While  he  must  quench  in  death  his  lost  desire. 


XLVIII 

The  image  of  thy  love,  rising  on  dark 
And  desperate  days  above  my  sullen  sea 
Wakens  again  fresh  hope  and  peace  in  me, 
Gleaming  above  upon  my  groaning  bark. 
Whate'er  my  sorrow  be  I  then  may  hark 
A  loving  voice  :  whate'er  my  terror  be 
This  heavenly  comfort  still  I  win  from  thee 
To  shine  my  lodestar  that  wert  once  my  mark. 

Prodigal  nature  makes  us  but  to  taste 
One  perfect  joy,  which  given  she  niggard  grows 
And  lest  her  precious  gift  should  run  to  waste 
Adds  to  its  loss  a  thousand  lesser  woes  : 
So  to  the  memory  of  the  gift  that  graced 
Her  hand,  her  graceless  hand  more  grace  bestows. 


XLIX 

I  WILL  not  marry  thee,  sweet  Hope —  I  said  — 
For  all  thy  beauty  nor  thy  promise  sworn  : 
Though  thou  the  dayspring  pledge,  and  rosy  morn 
Already  captive  in  thy  train  hast  led. 
No  clouded  terror  o'er  the  sun  is  spread, 
No  noonday  darkness  like  of  love  outworn  : 
The  cold  star  on  his  shining  orbit  borne 
With  all  his  valleys  dry,  his  verdure  dead. 

Nor  hast  thou  any  power  to  thrust  aside 
Fate's  cruel  hand,  nor  any  refuge  shewn 
Where  comfortless  my  widowed  shame  could  hide. 
For  me  —  in  my  cold  sepulchre  I'd  groan 
Hearing  men  say,  —  See  Hope,  so  late  love's  bride. 
Whom  now  this  vain  Ambition  has  made  his  own. 


In  this  neglected,  ruined  edifice 
Of  works  unperfected  and  broken  schemes, 
Where  is  the  promise  of  my  early  dreams, 
The  smile  of  beauty  and  the  pearl  of  price  ? 
No  charm  is  left  now  that  could  once  entice 
Wind-wavering  fortune  from  her  golden  streams, 
And  full  in  flight  decrepit  purpose  seems 
Trailing  the  banner  of  his  old  device. 

Within  the  house  a  frore  and  numbing  air 
Has  chilled  endeavour :  sickly  memories  reign 
In  every  room  and  ghosts  are  on  the  stair  : 
And  hope  behind  the  dusty  window-pane 
Watches  the  days  go  by,  and  half  aware 
Forecasts  her  last  reproach  and  mortal  stain. 


LI 

Once  I  would  say,  before  thy  vision  came, 
My  joy,  my  life,  my  love,  and  with  some  kind 
Of  knowledge  speak  and  think  I  knew  my  mind 
Of  heaven  and  hope,  and  each  word  hit  its  aim. 
Whate'er  their  sounds  be,  now  all  mean  the  same. 
Denoting  each  the  fair  I  cannot  find  : 
Or  if  I  say  them  't  is  as  one  long  blind 
Forgets  what  sights  they  were  he  used  to  name. 

Now  if  men  speak  of  love  't  is  not  my  love 
Nor  are  their  hopes  nor  joys  mine,  nor  the  life 
They  choose  for  praise  the  life  I  reckon  of : 
Nay  though  they  turn  from  house  and  child  and  wife 
And  self,  and  in  the  thought  of  heaven  above 
Hold,  as  do  I,  all  mortal  things  at  strife. 


V 


LII 

Since  then  't  is  only  pity  looking  back, 
Fear  looking  forward,  and  the  busy  mind 
Will  in  one  woeful  moment  more  upwind 
Than  lifelong  years  unroll  of  bitter  or  black  : 
What  is  man's  privilege,  his  hoarding  knack 
Of  memory  with  foreboding  so  combined, 
Whereby  he  comes  to  dream  he  hath  of  kind 
The  perpetuity  which  all  things  lack  ? 

Which  but  to  hope  is  doubtful  joy,  to  have 
Being  a  continuance  of  what,  alas, 
We  mourn  and  scarcely  bear  with  to  the  grave  : 
Or  something  so  unknown  that  it  o'erpass 
The  thought  of  comfort :  and  the  sense  that  gave 
Cannot  consider  it  through  any  glass. 


LIII 

Come  gentle  sleep,  I  woo  thee  :  come  and  take 
Not  now  the  child  into  thine  arms,  from  fright 
Composed  by  drowsy  tune  and  shaded  light, 
Whom  ignorant  of  thee  thou  didst  nurse  and  make 
Nor  now  the  boy  who  scorned  thee  for  the  sake 
Of  growing  knowledge  or  mysterious  night, 
Though  with  fatigue  thou  didst  his  limbs  invite 
And  heavily  weigh  the  eyes  he  strove  to  wake  : 

No,  nor  the  man  severe  who  from  his  best 
Failing,  alert  fled  to  thee,  that  his  breath, 
Blood,  force  and  fire  should  come  at  morn  redrest  : 
But  me,  from  whom  thy  comfort  tarrieth, 
For  all  my  wakeful  prayer  sent  without  rest 
To  thee,  O  shew  and  shadow  of  my  death. 


LIV 

LET  man  lament  his  lot  and  then  lament 
That  he  must  so  lament  and  then  complain 
That  all  his  lamentations  are  in  vain  : 
His  tears  betray  his  true  affections  bent. 
For  liefest  love  first  falls  to  discontent : 
As  they  who  best  know  health  will  rage  at  pain 
And  pine  beyond  their  sickness  to  regain 
Their  treasure  treasured  most  when  lost  or  spent : 

Which  being  in  them  a  dolour,  none  the  less 
Inspires  the  cries  of  prime.     The  truly  sad 
Are  dumb  :  and  they  but  honour  happiness 
Who  hanker  after  joys  that  once  they  had  : 
Or  surfeited  of  sweets  turn  and  confess 
Their  pleasure  is  to  be  no  longer  glad. 


LV 

The  spirit's  eager  sense  for  sad  or  gay 
Filleth  with  what  he  will  our  vessel  full : 
Be  joy  his  bent,  he  waiteth  not  joy's  day 
But  like  a  child  at  any  toy  will  pull : 

If  sorrow,  he  will  mourn  for  fancy's  sake 
And  spoil  heaven's  plenty  with  forbidden  care. 
What  fortune  most  denies  we  slave  to  take  : 
Nor  can  fate  load  us  more  than  we  can  bear. 

And  since  in  having,  pleasure  disappeareth, 
He  who  hath  least  in  hand  hath  most  at  heart 
While  he  can  hope  :  as  he  who  always  feareth 
A  grief  that  never  comes  hath  still  the  smart : 

And  worse  than  true  is  such  unreal  distress 
For  when  God  sendeth  sorrow,  it  doth  bless. 


LVI 

The  world  comes  not  to  an  end :  her  city-hives 
Swarm  with  the  tokens  of  a  changeless  trade, 
With  rolling  wheel,  driver  and  flagging  jade, 
Rich  men  and  beggars,  children,  priests  and  wives. 
New  homes  on  old  are  set  as  lives  on  lives, 
Invention  with  invention  overlaid : 
But  still  or  tool  or  toy  or  book  or  blade 
Shaped  for  the  hand  that  holds  and  toils  and  strives. 

The  men  I  meet  work  as  their  fathers  wrought 
With  little  bettered  means  :  for  works  depend 
On  works  and  overlap,  and  thought  on  thought. 
And  through  all  change  the  smiles  of  hope  amend 
The  weariest  face,  the  same  love  changed  in  nought : 
In  this  thing  too  the  world  comes  not  to  an  end. 


LVII 

Since  in  the  love  of  Christ  my  enterprise 
To  do  thee  honour  groweth  day  by  day, 
And  with  the  growth  of  love  the  words  I  say 
Are  daily  worthier  of  thee  and  more  wise  : 
Like  a  rich  Jew  I  book  my  merchandise 
In  fairest  hand  and  hoard  my  gains  away, 
Counting  the  hours  ere  I  shall  quite  repay 
More  than  the  full  account  against  me  lies : 

But  not  the  joy :  alas  I  in  my  grave 
Shall  be  and  thou  in  thine  ere  this  befal : 
'T  is  but  a  memory  my  verse  can  save. 
Of  this  my  wealth  too  if  I  give  thee  all 
Sorrow  for  pleasure  pay  I,  and  I  crave 
A  loan  of  time  that  flies  beyond  recall. 


LVIII 

0  MY  uncared-for  songs  what  are  ye  worth, 
That  in  my  secret  book  with  so  much  care 

1  write  you,  this  one  here  and  that  one  there, 
Marking  the  time  and  order  of  your  birth  ? 
Now,  with  a  fancy  so  unkind  to  mirth, 

A  sense  so  hard,  a  style  so  worn  and  bare, 

Look  ye  for  any  welcome  anywhere 

From  any  shelf  or  heart-home  on  the  earth  ? 

Should  others  ask  you  this,  say  then  I  yearned 
To  write  you  such  as  once,  when  I  was  young. 
Finding  I  should  have  loved  and  thereto  turned. 
'T  were  something  yet  to  live  again  among 
The  gentle  youth  beloved  and  where  I  learned 
My  art  be  there  remembered  for  my  song. 


LIX 

Who  takes  the  census  of  the  living  dead, 
Ere  the  day  come  when  memory  shall  o'ercrowd 
The  kingdom  of  their  fame,  and  for  that  proud 
And  airy  people  find  no  room  nor  stead  ? 

Ere  hoarding  Time,  that  ever  thrusteth  back 
The  fairest  treasures  of  his  ancient  store, 
Better  with  best  confound,  so  he  may  pack 
His  greedy  gatherings  closer,  more  and  more  ? 

Let  the  true  Muse  rewrite  her  sullied  page 
And  purge  her  story  of  the  men  of  hate. 
That  they  go  dirgeless  down  to  Satan's  rage 
With  all  else  foul  deformed  and  miscreate  : 

She  hath  full  toil  to  keep  the  names  we  love 
Honoured  on  earth  as  they  are  bright  above. 


•  LX 

I  HEARD  great  Hector  sounding  war's  alarms 
Where  through  the  listless  ghosts  chiding  he  strode, 
As  though  the  Greeks  besieged  his  last  abode, 
And  he  his  Troy's  hope  still,  her  king  at  arms. 
But  on  those  gentle  meads  where  nothing  harms 
And  purpose  perishes,  his  passion  glowed 
Like  the  cold  nightworm's  candle  nor  scarce  shewed 
The  heart  death  kills  not  quite  nor  Lethe  charms. 

'T  was  plain  to  read  even  by  those  shadows  quaint 
How  rude  catastrophe  had  dimmed  his  day 
And  blighted  all  his  cheer  with  stern  complaint. 
To  arms,  to  arms,  —  what  more  the  voice  would  say 
Was  swallowed  in  the  valleys  and  grew  faint 
Upon  the  thin  air  as  he  passed  away. 


LXI 

SINCE  peace  came  down  to  me,  I  well  know  whence, 
O  perfected  and  happy  spirit,  't  was  sped : 
And  who  did  lead  me  whither  I  was  led, 
Drawn  by  sweet  airs  and  plaintive  innocence. 
So  lost  when  thou  didst  seem  departing  hence, 
I  too  enrolled  myself  among  the  dead 
And  left  my  home  of  homes  unvisited. 
Exiled  from  memory  for  my  woe's  defence. 

But  see  the  doors  fast  shut  by  grief  and  pride, 
Reopened  :  see  kind  peace  returned  in  spite 
Of  this  sad  heart  which  thee  so  long  denied  : 
For  thou  my  joy,  whate'er,  or  day  or  night, 
I  think  or  do,  again  art  by  my  side, 
My  lost  and  won,  my  treasure  and  life's  delight. 


Lxir 

Sweet  sleep,  dear  unadorned  bride  of  toil, 
Whom  in  the  dusk  of  night  men's  bodies  low 
Lie  to  receive,  and  thy  loved  coming  know, 
Closing  the  cloudy  gate  on  day's  turmoil : 
Thou  through  the  soft  ways  enterest  to  despoil 
The  ready  spirit  and  on  worn  flesh  bestow 
Such  comfort  as  through  trembling  souls  will  flow 
When  God's  Welldone  doth  all  their  sins  assoil. 

Thought  looseth  at  thy  touch  her  troubled  hold. 
Hand,  eye  and  ear  fail,  and  the  world's  fair  show 
Is  blotted  clean  :  or  then  thou  mayst  unfold  — 
Brightening  the  hours  of  sure  renewal  slow  — 
Thy  careless  pageantries,  pictures  untold, 
Joys  which  the  tasking  sun  melteth  like  snow. 


LXIII 

Since  not  the  enamoured  sun  with  glance  more  fond 

Kisses  the  foliage  of  his  sacred  tree. 

Than  doth  my  waking  thought  arise  on  thee, 

Loving  none  near  thee,  like  thee  nor  beyond  : 

Nay  since  I  am  sworn  thy  slave  and  in  the  bond 

Is  writ  my  promise  of  eternity  : 

Since  to  such  high  hope  thou'st  encouraged  me 

That  if  thou  look  but  from  me  I  despond  : 

Since  thou  'rt  my  all  in  all,  O  think  of  this : 
Think  of  the  dedication  of  my  youth : 
Think  of  my  loyalty,  my  joy,  my  bliss  : 
Think  of  my  sorrow,  my  despair  and  ruth, 
My  sheer  annihilation  if  I  miss : 
Think  —  if  thou  shouldst  be  false  —  think  of  thy  truth. 


LXIV 

These  meagre  rhymes  which  a  returning  mood 
Sometimes  o'errateth,  I  as  oft  despise : 
And  knowing  them  illnatured,  stiff  and  rude, 
See  them  as  others  with  contemptuous  eyes. 

Nay  and  I  wonder  less  at  God's  respect 
For  man,  a  minim  jot  in  time  and  space, 
Than  at  the  soaring  faith  of  His  elect, 
That  gift  of  gifts,  the  comfort  of  His  grace. 

O  work  unsearchable,  O  heavenly  love. 
Most  infinitely  tender,  so  to  touch 
The  work  that  we  can  meanly  reckon  of : 
Surely  —  I  say  —  we  are  favoured  overmuch. 

But  of  this  wonder,  what  doth  most*  amaze 
Is  that  we  know  our  love  is  held  for  praise . 


LXV 

Beauty  sat  with  me  all  the  summer  day, 
Awaiting  the  sure  triumph  of  her  eye : 
Nor  marked  I  till  we  parted  how,  hard  by. 
Love  in  her  train  stood  ready  for  his  prey. 
She  as  too  pr6ud  to  join  herself  the  fray, 
Trusting  too  much  to  her  divine  ally, 
When  she  saw  victory  tarry  chid  him  —  Why 
Dost  thou  not  at  one  stroke  this  rebel  slay  ? 

Then  generous  Love  who  holds  my  heart  in  fee 
Told  of  our  ancient  truce :  so  from  the  fight 
We  straight  withdrew  our  forces,  all  the  three. 
Baffled  but  not  disheartened  she  took  flight, 
Scheming  new  tactics  :  Love  came  home  with  me 
And  prompts  my  measured  verses  as  I  write. 


LXVI 

In  autumn  moonlight  when  the  white  air  wan 
Is  fragrant  in  the  wake  of  summer  hence 
'T  is  sweet  to  sit  entranced  and  muse  thereon 
In  melancholy  and  godlike  indolence  : 

When  the  proud  spirit  lulled  by  mortal  prime 
To  fond  pretence  of  immortality 
Vieweth  all  moments  from  the  birth  of  time, 
All  things  whate'er  have  been  or  yet  shall  be. 

And  like  the  garden  where  the  year  is  spent, 
The  ruin  of  old  life  is  full  of  yearning. 
Mingling  poetic  rapture  of  lament 
With  flowers  and  sunshine  of  spring's  sure  returning 

Only  in  visions  of  the  white  air  wan 
By  godlike  fancy  seized  and  dwelt  upon. 


LXVII 

When  first  I  saw  thee,  dearest,  if  I  say 

The  spells  that  conjure  back  the  hour  and  place, 

And  evermore  I  look  upon  thy  face, 

As  in  the  spring  of  years  long  passed  away : 

No  fading  of  thy  beauty's  rich  array, 

No  detriment  of  age  on  thee  I  trace, 

But  time's  defeat  written  in  spoils  of  grace, 

Robbed  from  the  rivals  thou  didst  pity  and  slay. 

So  hath  thy  growth  been,  thus  thy  faith  is  true, 
Unchanged  in  change,  still  to  my  growing  sense. 
To  life's  desire  the  same,  and  nothing  new  : 
But  as  thou  wert  in  dream  and  prescience 
At  love's  arising,  now  thou  standst  to  view 
In  the  broad  noon  of  his  magnificence. 


LXVIII 

9'^  1  ^  WAS  on  the  very  day  winter  took  leave 

I  Of  those  fair  fields  I  love,  when  to  the  skies 

The  fragrant  Earth  was  smiling  in  surprise 
At  that  her  heaven-descended  quick  reprieve, 
I  wandered  forth  my  sorrow  to  relieve. 
Yet  walked  amid  sweet  pleasure  in  such  wise 
As  Adam  went  alone  in  Paradise, 
Before  God  of  His  pity  fashioned  Eve. 

And  out  of  tune  with  all  the  joy  around 
I  laid  me  down  beneath  a  flowering  tree 
And  o'er  my  senses  crept  a  sleep  profound  : 
In  which  it  seemed  that  thou  wert  given  to  me. 
Rending  my  body  where  with  hurried  sound 
I  feel  my  heart  beat  when  I  think  of  thee. 


LXIX 

Love  that  I  know,  love  I  am  wise  in,  love 

My  strength,  my  pride,  my  grace,  my  skill  untaught, 

My  faith  here  upon  earth,  my  hope  above. 

My  contemplation  and  perpetual  thought : 

The  pleasure  of  my  fancy,  my  heart's  fire, 
My  joy,  my  peace,  my  praise,  my  happy  theme, 
The  aim  of  all  my  doing,  my  desire 
Of  being,  my  life  by  day,  by  night  my  dream  : 

Love,  my  sweet  melancholy,  my  distress. 
My  pain,  my  doubt,  my  trouble,  my  despair, 
My  only  folly  and  unhappiness, 
And  in  my  careless  moments  still  my  care  : 

O  love,  sweet  love,  earthly  love,  love  divine, 
Sayst  thou  to-day,  O  love,  that  thou  art  mine  ? 


LXX 

The  dark  and  serious  angel  who  so  long 

Vexed  his  immortal  strength  in  charge  of  me 

Hath  smiled  for  joy  and  fled  in  liberty 

To  take  his  pastime  with  the  peerless  throng. 

Oft  had  I  done  his  noble  keeping  wrong, 

Wounding  his  heart  to  wonder  what  might  be 

God's  purpose  in  a  soul  of  such  degree : 

And  there  he  had  left  me  but  for  mandate  strong. 

But  seeing  thee  with  me  now,  his  task  at  close 
He  knoweth,  and  wherefore  he  was  bid  to  stay 
And  work  confusion  of  so  many  foes. 
The  thanks  he  looks  to  have  from  me  I  pay, 
Yet  fear  some  heavenly  envy  as  he  goes 
Unto  what  great  reward  I  cannot  say. 


LXXI 

Though  others  love  Thee  less  I  will  stand  true, 

Nor  can  it  be  that  I  should  ever  leave  Thee : 

Thou  knowest  my  heart  and  if  it  could  deceive  Thee 

It  would  not  wrong  Thee  thus  as  others  do. 

I  spend  the  day  telling  my  vows  anew, 

And  hold  my  courage  ready  lest  I  grieve  Thee, 

And  count  my  words  lest  chance  oflfence  bereave  Thee 

Of  one  poor  sheep  out  of  Thy  flock  so  few : 

And  call  on  Thee  my  Lord,  my  Strength,  my  Stay, 
That  if  I  faint  or  fall  Thou  wilt  restore  me 
And  feed  me  with  fresh  comfort  day  by  day. 
Nay  though  it  be  Thy  terrors  all  pass  o'er  me 
Lo,  I  will  fear  no  evil,  for  I  say, 
Surely  Thy  grace  will  be  sufficient  for  me. 


LXXII 

I  WILL  be  what  God  made  me,  nor  protest 
Against  the  bent  of  genius  in  my  time  : 
That  science  of  my  friends  robs  all  the  best, 
While  I  love  beauty  and  was  born  to  rhyme. 
Be  they  our  mighty  men  and  let  me  dwell 
In  shadow  among  the  mighty  shades  of  old, 
With  love's  forsaken  palace  for  my  cell : 
Whence  I  look  forth  and  all  the  world  behold : 

And  say,  —  These  better  days,  in  best  things  worse. 
This  bastardy  of  time's  magnificence. 
Will  mend  in  fashion  and  throw  off  the  curse. 
To  crown  new  love  with  higher  excellence. 

Cursed  though  I  be  to  live  my  life  alone. 
My  toil  is  for  man's  joy,  his  joy  my  own. 


LXXIII 

I  LIVE  on  hope  and  that  I  think  do  all 
Who  come  into  this  world,  and  since  I  see 
Myself  in  swim  with  such  good  company 
I  take  my  comfort  whatsoe'er  befall. 
I  abide  and  abide,  as  if  more  stout  and  tall 
My  spirit  would  grow  by  waiting  like  a  tree  : 
And  clear  of  others'  toil  it  pleaseth  me 
In  dreams  their  quick  ambition  to  forestall. 

And  if  through  careless  eagerness  I  slide 
To  some  accomplishment,  I  give  my  voice 
Still  to  desire  and  in  desire  abide. 
I  have  no  stake  abroad  :  if  I  rejoice 
In  what  is  done  or  doing,  I  confide 
Neither  to  friend  nor  foe  my  secret  choice. 


LXXIV 

Ye  blessed  saints  that  now  in  heaven  enjoy 
The  purchase  of  those  tears  the  world's  disdain, 
Doth  love  still  with  his  war  your  peace  annoy, 
Or  hath  Death  freed  you  from  his  ancient  pain  ? 

Have  ye  no  springtide  and  no  burst  of  May 
In  flowers  and  leafy  trees,  when  solemn  night 
Pants  with  love  music,  and  the  holy  day 
Breaks  on  the  ear  with  songs  of  heavenly  light  ? 

What  make  ye  and  what  strive  for  ?  keep  ye  thought 
Of  us,  or  in  new  excellence  divine 
Is  old  forgot  :  or  do  ye  count  for  naught 
What  the  Greek  did  and  what  the  Florentine  ? 

We  keep  your  memories  well  :  O  in  your  store 
Live  not  our  best  joys  treasured  evermore  ? 


LXXV 

Ah  heavenly  joy !     But  who  hath  ever  heard, 
Who  hath  seen  joy,  or  who  shall  ever  find 
Joy's  language  ?     There  is  neither  speech  nor  word  : 
Nought  but  itself  to  teach  it  to  mankind. 

Scarce  in  our  twenty  thousand  painful  days 
We  may  touch  something  :  but  there  lives  —  beyond 
The  best  of  art,  or  nature's  kindest  phase  — 
The  hope  whereof  our  spirit  is  fain  and  fond  : 

The  cause  of  beauty  given  to  man's  desires, 
Writ  in  the  expectancy  of  starry  skies, 
The  faith  which  gloweth  in  our  fleeting  fires, 
The  aim  of  all  the  excellence  we  prize  : 

Which  but  to  love,  pursue  and  pray  for  well 
Maketh  earth  heaven,  and  to  forget  it,  hell. 


LXXVI 

My  wearied  heart,  whenever,  after  all, 
Its  loves  and  yearnings  shall  be  told  complete, 
When  gentle  death  shall  bid  it  cease  to  beat. 
And  from  all  dear  illusions  disenthrall : 
However  then  thou  shalt  appear  to  call 
My  fearful  heart,  since  down  at  others'  feet 
It  bade  me  kneel  so  oft,  I'll  not  retreat 
From  thee  nor  fear  before  thy  feet  to  fall. 

And  I  shall  say, —  Receive  this  loving  heart 
Which  erred  in  sorrow  only :  and  in  sin 
Took  no  delight :  but  being  forced  apart 
From  thee,  without  thee  hoping  thee  to  win. 
Most  prized  what  most  thou  madest  as  thou  art 
On  earth,  till  heaven  were  open  to  enter  in. 


LXXVII 

Dreary  was  winter,  wet  with  changeful  sting 
Of  clinging  snowfall  and  fast-flying  frost : 
And  bitterer  northwinds  then  withheld  the  spring 
That  dallied  with  her  promise  till  't  was  lost. 

A  sunless  and  half-hearted  summer  drowned 
The  flowers  in  needful  and  unwelcomed  rain  : 
And  Autumn  with  a  sad  smile  fled  uncrowned 
From  fruitless  orchards  and  unripened  grain. 

But  could  the  skies  of  this  most  desolate  year 
In  its  last  month  learn  with  our  love  to  glow, 
Men  yet  should  rank  its  cloudless  atmosphere 
Above  the  sunsets  of  five  years  ago : 

Of  my  great  praise  too  part  should  be  its  own, 
Now  reckoned  peerless  for  thy  love  alone. 


LXXVIII 

Away  now,  lovely  Muse,  roam  and  be  free : 
Our  commerce  ends  for  aye,  thy  task  is  done : 
Though  to  win  thee  I  left  all  else  unwon, 
Thou  whom  I  most  have  won  art  not  for  me. 
My  first  desire,  thou  too  forgone  must  be, 
Thou  too  O  much  lamented  now  though  none 
Will  turn  to  pity  thy  forsaken  son. 
Nor  the  divine  sisters  will  weep  for  thee. 

None  will  weep  for  thee  :  thou  return,  O  Muse, 
To  thy  Sicilian  fields :   I  once  have  been 
On  thy  loved  hills,  and  where  thou  first  didst  use 
Thy  sweetly  balanced  rhyme,  unthankful  queen, 
Have  plucked  and  wreathed  thy  flowers :  but  do  thou  choose 
Some  happier  brow  to  wear  thy  garlands  green. 


LXXIX 

Eternal  Father  who  didst  all  create, 
In  whom  we  live  and  to  whose  bosom  move, 
To  all  men  be  Thy  name  known  which  is  Love, 
Till  its  loud  praises  sound  at  heaven's  high  gate. 
Perfect  Thy  kingdom  in  our  passing  state, 
That  here  on  earth  Thou  mayst  as  well  approve 
Our  service  as  Thou  ownest  theirs  above 
Whose  joy  we  echo  and  in  pain  await. 

Grant  body  and  soul  each  day  their  daily  bread 
And  should  in  spite  of  grace  fresh  woe  begin, 
Even  as  our  anger  soon  is  past  and  dead 
Be  Thy  remembrance  mortal  of  our  sin  : 

By  Thee  in  paths  of  peace  Thy  sheep  be  led, 
And  in  the  vale  of  terror  comforted. 


^ 


NOTE. 

Sonnet  xxxvi.    The  argument  is  partly  from  Michael   Angelo : 

Madrigal  xix. 
Sonnet  xxxvii.     From  Boccaccio. 
Sonnet  lxxiii.     Partly  from  the  anonymous  Sonnet  No,  3,793,  in 

the  Libro  Reale  "  lo  vivo  di  speranza." 
Sonnet  lxxiv.     The  first  four  lines  translated  from  Michael  An- 

gelo's  Madrigal  "  Beati  voi." 


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